


Rabbit's Hide

by JenniferNapier



Series: Rabbit's Tale [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bonding, Cooking, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Flying, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Build, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Swordfighting, The Bentley - Freeform, Wings, bunny demon, car racing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: PART 2When what began as blackmail becomes something a little more complicated, Crowley, Aziraphale, and Eric the Disposable Demon discover that kindness, honesty, and trust are the core ingredients of an unexpected and valuable friendship. But is their bond strong enough to endure the challenges to come?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Disposable Demon (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Disposable Demon (Good Omens)
Series: Rabbit's Tale [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580242
Comments: 69
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers. After finalizing the storyboard for this fic, it appears that this story is going to extend well beyond what I originally imagined for it, which is good news for those of you who never want this Tale to end, and bad news for those of you who do want it to just end already. I hope there are more of the former than the latter.
> 
> For those of you who fall into the latter category and have read as much as you can bear, you will have to be satisfied with the relatively happy open-ended ending of Part 1, or-- if you're sticking through this for another dozen chapters-- a much more happy open-ended ending of Part 2.
> 
> For those of you who are here with me all the way through this fic, I hope you are all eventually satisfied with the true (still happy, I promise, despite the emotional roller coaster I am about to take you through) ending of Part 3.
> 
> Enjoy!

“He’s going to poison us,” Crowley mumbled, slouching in the elevator.

“He’s not going to poison us,” Aziraphale grumbled as he gazed tiredly at the closed doors in front of them.

“How can you be so sure?”

“It’d be too obvious.” Aziraphale tilted his head and lifted his brows, sporting a dash of sass. “Aren’t demons supposed to be clever?”

Crowley mockingly sneered to himself. After what Eric had told him about _not_ being ‘that clever,’ he had little faith that Eric could come up with (or cook) anything craftier than ricin-enriched rice.

The elevator _dinged_ as it reached the proper floor. After the doors slid open, the angel stepped out, followed by the sulking demon. “I’m more worried about giving the boy an honest critique of his cooking,” Aziraphale murmured. “I sincerely hope he _has_ gotten better at it.” He didn’t want to upset the hare, but he also wanted to obey Crowley’s advice to be more truthful towards him.

“Well, the _building_ is still standing,” the redhead pointed out with as much optimism as he could muster, though it was smothered in sarcasm.

“I have to admit, that’s better than I expected, by this point.” Aziraphale stopped at Eric’s door.

The bookkeeper sighed and gave Crowley one last look before knocking on the door. Crowley returned a desolate pout, but then gathered his courage and faced the door.

Eric’s voice called from within, “Come in!”

The door was already unlocked. Aziraphale nodded to himself and then led the way inside, opening the portal almost as if he were entering a haunted house with a jump scare waiting around the corner. Crowley hovered closely behind his shoulder, peering over him with expectant dread.

They were not greeted by anything akin to a nightmare. Instead, the apartment was nearly just as they’d left it. Clean, orderly, free of clutter, and perfumed with the alluring air of _food_ being cooked in a skillet. Aziraphale’s expression lit up the second he breathed in the succulent scent and heard the sizzling of steak on a stove.

Even Crowley’s sour mood sweetened at the sight of the place. There were a few added artifacts; some shelving along the walls that displayed odd bits and ends-- some pretty rocks, a small drawing mannequin poised in dance, a vase of peacock and pheasant feathers, and other decorative items that the lesser demon had collected. 

There were a couple of simple-but-colorful finger paintings hung on the walls. On the end tables of the living room, there sat a couple of clay-sculpted statues, one of a jackrabbit, one of a cartoonish heart with paisley designs etched into it. A bowl of woven twig balls adorned the coffee table. The homeowner had developed some sense of style-- a far better one than he’d originally possessed.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Aziraphale murmured, a smile creeping across his face as he deduced that the paintings and the statues had been _created_ by the hare, not purchased. “He _has_ gotten better.” He admired the crafts, which didn’t so much look as if they were made by a haphazard child, but instead looked as if they were made simply by a young person who had great potential for growth in their artistic talents.

Crowley’s gaze gravitated to a record player on the bookshelf, surrounded comfortably by the array of books Aziraphale had allowed Eric to borrow, all sorted alphabetically by genre. A Queen record was lying in wait under the raised needle of the player.

Whether the lesser demon had _‘gotten better’_ or not was up for debate in Crowley’s mind, but it was clear to see that Eric definitely had become more _like them,_ at the very least. 

More human, perhaps.

The two of them jumped as Sky shrieked a noisy greeting. The macaw flapped her bright wings from her perch in the dining room, waving at them with a grand smile on her beak. Aziraphale grinned at the sight of her, bright and happy and well-taken care of.

Eric poked his head out from the kitchen, waving with the hand that wasn't holding a pair of meat tongs. “Dinner is almost done!” He was wearing an apron properly this time.

“Would you like to see what I’ve taught Sky?” another Eric asked, entering into the living space from the hallway. He lifted his bare forearm, his silk shirt sleeves rolled up and cuffed at his elbow. With a click of his tongue he beckoned the bird over, and she leapt into the air with a frenzied flutter. She made it to his arm, landing clumsily from her crippled flight. “Good girl,” the demon cooed, drawing a treat out of his pocket to feed her.

“Giving her plenty of exercise, I see.” Aziraphale watched the pair fondly. A bird of that nature needed excessive enrichment. It was clear that she was near constantly being given it, with at least one Eric with her at all times. It was a good thing.

“Do you want to try it?” Eric asked merrily. “Hold your arm out and click, she’ll come to you.”

Aziraphale did so, mirroring Eric’s falconer pose. Sky fluttered over to him eagerly enough, though she seemed expectant to receive a piece of food in payment. “She’s very obedient,” the bookkeeper miracled a snack for her. Crowley watched the feathered creature with mild disdain, and perhaps a bit of possessive bitterness as she claimed the angel’s arm as her temporary perch.

“The trick is to make it fun for her. She’ll listen to anything you say as long as she thinks it’s rewarding.” Eric declared before calling her back.

Aziraphale lowered his arm after the macaw left him, maybe appearing a bit sad for a moment as he nodded. “Yes. Indeed."

Crowley broke the mood with an abrupt and crass, “How’s the shitting going?” as if he were intent on bringing the demon’s flaws and failures to the light.

Eric ignored the serpent, stroking Sky’s back and murmuring a pointed, “How does it _look_ like it’s going?” 

It looked like it was going rather well, in fact. There wasn't a hint of a bird bomb anywhere. Crowley didn’t have anything nasty to retort, so he stood in a defeated silence. 

“Shall we have a seat?” Aziraphale suggested, giving Crowley a warning look. Eric gestured over to the dining table, which another few Erics had nicely set during the exchange of the parrot. Two of them pulled out chairs with matching smiles. Aziraphale gave his Eric a feeble expression of gratitude and awkwardly took his seat while Crowley growled at his Eric, only taking his seat after the copy had taken a great step away from the offered chair. 

The Eric holding Sky took her into the other room to distract her with games while dinner was served. The rest of the Erics went about acting as a rather skilled wait staff, giving the angel and the serpent full restaurant service as they brought out fancy napkins, a choice of well-picked drinks, and then the well-dressed plates of the entrée-- pepper sauce steak cooked to each of their preferences; medium for Aziraphale, and medium-rare for Crowley.

Aziraphale gazed upon the meal with large eyes, doing his very best to conceal his shock. The dish looked nothing like what a chef at Vinny’s would produce. Rather, it looked like what a chef at the _Ritz-Carlton_ would produce. It was a masterpiece of art, and almost too beautiful to take a fork to. Aziraphale was pretty certain that doing so would be a cardinal sin.

But how could he resist the temptation?

The angel reached for his utensils blindly, star-struck by the plate in front of him. Crowley broke his trance with a sudden, “Fucking _Heaven,_ Eric.” 

Aziraphale glanced over at his friend in brief alarm, but Crowley’s plate didn’t look any differently than his own. Still, the demon stared down at it before throwing a perplexed snarl up at one of the hares. “You actually made that?”

“I did,” the Eric nodded nervously, also wondering what the matter was.

Crowley bared his teeth at his plate as if he despised it. However, the complete opposite was true. “It’s the most _beautiful_ bloody dish I’ve ever _seen!”_

Eric’s face lit up like a firework. All of the Erics’ did. Aziraphale smiled at Crowley’s plate, then at Crowley, pleased that the demon was so openly honest-- and kind. The serpent’s foul expression was only born from his disliking of saying something kind, but he was unable _not_ to. The meal was undeniably visually exquisite. But as far as its taste...

Aziraphale hesitated. They both did, continuing to stare down at their herb-decorated sauce-drizzled steaks. One Eric sat down with his own gorgeous plate to eat with them, and began expertly cutting his steak. Aziraphale began to do the same, but didn't take a bite until Eric did, only then feeling foolishly safe enough to try it. Crowley gave his angel a look, then reluctantly tried it himself, though he thought that Eric could easily sacrifice one of his copies to a poisoned dish if it tricked the two of them into tasting it. But that would be assuming that the lesser demon was somewhat clever.

They were both nervous and awkward in their own ways, but that soon changed-- particularly when Aziraphale finally swallowed his first bite.

“Eric,” the bookkeeper gawked at his meal, then at the copy of the hare that was sitting across the table from them before turning to Chef Eric at the entryway to the kitchen. “This is _divine.”_ And that was saying something, coming from an angel.

Eric seemed too shy to meet his gaze, and too proud not to grin as a warmth permeated across his dark face.

Crowley grumbled with demur, “It's not _terrible.”_

Aziraphale was already working on his second bite, having collected more of the pepper sauce on this slice. “What’s that _flavor?”_ he pleaded after pondering over it to himself. “It’s almost a… um, a charcoal, _smokey_ flavor.” He needed a third bite to reattempt identifying it. This time, he scraped some of the sauce off, trying to find the source. “I’ve never tasted it before.”

“It’s...” Crowley wagged his fork in the air, leaning on one elbow while doing some detective work of his own with his forked tongue. “It’s like…” But he gave up with a growl, “Oh, I _swear_ I’ve tasted this before.”

“It’s a secret!” Chef Eric smirked broadly. He turned to disappear into the kitchen once more. “I’ll get started on the dessert.”

Crowley was rightfully torn between refusing to take another bite, and wanting to wolf the entire thing down. “I told you,” he sneered quietly over to the angel before deciding to cut another slice. “Poison.”

“This _can’t_ be poison,” Aziraphale whispered before taking another sauce-soaked bite. “It’s too delicious to be poison.”

The Eric that was sitting across the table from them reminded them that, “I can hear you.” but he didn’t seem to mind their accusations all that much. He continued merrily munching.

“You poisoned us, didn’t you, you little vermin?” Crowley hissed outright. Aziraphale interrupted them by mumbling something that was muddled by his hearty mouthful. Crowley turned to him with a sigh, “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you just said, angel.”

Aziraphale held a napkin to his lips and repeated from behind it, “I said, if he did, _I don’t care,"_ while shaking his head. “This is…” he swallowed and began cutting another slice of his steak, “...well worth dying for.”

Crowley’s already sour expression tightened, but he helplessly continued eating, powerless to ignore the irresistible flavors that already had the angel floating on cloud nine.

The Eric across the table piped up to change the conversation, spying an opportunity to bring up something he’d been meaning to discuss. “I was thinking… about that whole, ‘I could take over the world’ bit…?”

Crowley stared blankly at him, then threw a questioning look at Aziraphale, who was no longer enjoying his food.

“I think I might like to try it!”

The angel choked and brought up his napkin again, shaking his head and wincing as he coughed, _“No."_

“What’s this?” Crowley failed to conceal a hesitant grin from spreading across his face, looking between them.

“Well, the other day, we realized that with my brilliant talent for self-multiplication, I could probably take over the world,” Eric explained innocently while Aziraphale was busy taking a drink to calm his throat. “And I think that’d be kind of fun.”

Crowley started laughing a terrified laugh. “That’s terrific.” What he meant to say was ’terrible,’ but sometimes, they were one in the same.

Aziraphale had successfully cleared his airways, sighing as he lowered his napkin and sagged his shoulders. “Eric, please, that is _not_ a good idea.”

“What about just a continent?” Eric negotiated.

The angel shook his head miserably. “No.”

“A country?”

“No, Eric.” Aziraphale shut his eyes and swiftly prayed.

Eric squinted and pinched his fingers together. “A _small_ country.”

“My answer is not going to change,” the bookkeeper finalized with a stern look.

Eric turned to Crowley. “What's the smallest country on Earth?”

Crowley suddenly guffawed with delight, “The Vatican!"

Eric gestured to his fellow demon as if he’d found the perfect compromise for their dilemma. “I'll take over that!”

If Aziraphale would have taken another bite of his meal, he would have choked all over again. Instead, he set his utensils down and gasped, “Absolutely not!” The angel turned an astonished glance to Crowley-- whose shoulders were bouncing with laughter. He would be no help whatsoever, so Aziraphale continued scolding Eric, “That’s the capital of the _Roman Catholic Church!”_

A sense of dreamy wonder came across Eric’s brown eyes. “I could take over _the church?”_

Crowley was being massacred by his own fit of laughter. There were almost visible teardrops running down the apples of his bony cheeks. “You could be the next _pope!_ Hahaha!”

Eric grinned at the space in front of himself, imagining, “I could be the next _pope…”_

“ _No,_ Eric, that is a _very_ bad idea.” Aziraphale desperately began persuading him to reconsider. “You wouldn't like it there. It’s boring. There’s no…” he struggled, gesturing randomly before spitting, “ _Fun_ things.” The angel then eagerly pointed out, “Besides! You cannot cause catastrophic harm or terror, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Some of Eric’s bright expression was extinguished, but then was quickly rekindled. “Actually, that’s all the more reason for me to take ovah! Under my rule, no terror or harm could come to any of them-- even if I mucked up. Right?”

Aziraphale closed his blue eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, just short of holding his head in both hands with defeated despair.

“He’s got a point,” Crowley nodded over to the bookkeeper, having regained his breath from his giggle fit. “They all might be better off with him wearin’ the crown.”

“I need to get some air.” Aziraphale stood up from his chair, ready to teleport himself right out of the building to take some much-needed breathing exercises.

“Oh, but I just finished preparing dessert.” Eric glanced over as his culinary connoisseur of a counterpart brought in two warm bowls from the kitchen. “Won’t you stay a little longer?”

Aziraphale eyed the dessert bowls, spying caramelized bananas, thick golden liqueur sauce, and dainty heaps of french vanilla ice cream. He hesitated, then sighed, “Promise me you won’t take over the Vatican?”

“I won’t take it over.” Eric shook his head as his copy brought out a third bowl to serve to himself. “At least, not soon. I need to do some research first.”

After straightening his waistcoat, Aziraphale settled himself back down in his chair-- trying very hard not to appear as if he’d been successfully won over with food, even though he had, and trying very hard not to appear as if he were dying to try the bananas foster, even though he was. Crowley was already mesmerized by the tasty treat, and appeared very content in his seat while dragging his spoon out of his mouth like a child.

“If I do decide to do it, you’ll be the first to know. I’ll need your counsel,” Eric smiled, happy that Aziraphale had chosen to stay with them a while longer.

“I’ll counsel you!” Crowley chirped. “I got a whole _list_ of things _that place_ can work on.”

Aziraphale gave the redhead a gentle glare, then dug into the dessert. “I’m pretty certain the entire city is consecrated anyway,” he muttered indifferently. “You two will be out of there within hours. And with _very_ burned feet.” The mischievous demons would simply have to learn to leave the Vatican alone the hard way.

The bookkeeper’s perturbed expression soothed into something more angelic as he tried the dessert. With a heavenly sigh, he closed his eyes. “There's that flavor again.”

“Yeah, what’d you put in these b’nanas?” Crowley asked, displaying a caramelized chunk of one on his fork. 

Eric smirked to himself and shrugged. “Nothin’ special.”

“In all my years on this Earth, I’ve tried _everything_ the humans have come up with and I’ve _never_ had something like that.” Aziraphale professed, pointing at the bowl with his fork. “It’s brilliant. What flavor is that?”

“You don't want to know,” the hare shook his head with a shy laugh.

“Yes, I do,” the angel nodded vehemently.

“No, you don't.”

“Please, I _must_ know,” Aziraphale whined as if he were being tortured.

Crowley interrupted their back and forth banter with a demanding, “WOT IS IT ALREADY?”

Eric flinched and spilled the secret. “I-it’s Hellfire.” His guests abruptly stopped chewing and stared at him. After a stunned moment, Crowley turned a sharp glance to Aziraphale.

“I learned how to cook with Hellfire,” Eric repeated, massaging his hands nervously under the table and glancing at their bowls. “That’s where that smokey sort of flavor comes from.”

“Oh my _God.”_ Aziraphale exhaled, blue eyes wide. It was no wonder he’d never tasted something like that. “I love it,” he declared, caught in an infatuated shock. “I must have more. Could you make some more?” He offered over his empty bowl.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eric’s face lit up again, eagerly taking it and running off to hand it over to Chef Eric. “Coming right up!”

Crowley turned his bewildered gaze from Eric to the bowl in front of himself to Aziraphale-- who was perfectly fine despite the secretly sinful ingredient. In fact, he was as giddy as a young boy on Christmas day. Aziraphale flashed him a glorious grin, wiggling excitedly. “With _Hellfire!_ Can you believe it?”

Crowley gawked at him, then glanced to the kitchen. “I-I think I’d have to _see it_ to believe it.” He dropped his napkin on the table before abandoning his seat and slipping around the corner to watch Eric work. As the demon left, Aziraphale checked if there was any of the bananas foster left in Crowley’s bowl to steal. Clearly, the serpent wasn't eating it, and the bookkeeper knew what they said about snoozing and losing.

* * *

Purple Eric was cutting more bananas as Chef Eric was portioning out brown sugar and butter into a pan, melting and mixing them over medium heat of the ordinary gas stove top. Crowley cautiously slunk over to stand behind their shoulders, watching them with curious and scrutinous eyes. “How did you use Hellfire without destroying the bloody thing?” he asked.

“You've got to be very careful with it,” Eric answered, not bothered by the serpent’s hovering. He was proud to show off his newfound talent. “It takes a lot of patience, and great control.” He placed the sliced bananas into the bubbling sauce. When they had been stirred in and overturned, he shut off the gas stove top and then poured in some delicious liquor. 

Purple Eric was one step behind him, preparing a second pan while working at maximum efficiency. It wasn’t hard to imagine an army of them operating an entire restaurant all on their own.

“Control over Hellfire," the serpent scoffed as Purple Eric set the bottle of liquor back in the cabinet. “That's nearly impossible. The damn thing’s got a mind of its own.”

The chef reached for the lid of a cast iron pot that was resting on a thick hot pad across the kitchen-- wisely near the sink. “Well, then you just got to understand…” he lifted the lid, revealing a churning bundle of Hellfire that licked up from a tuft of blackened steel wool and charred gravel. “...how its mind works.” The ruby flames reached and grew skyward with the gift of exposed air, but Eric swiped his similarly-painted fingers into the pot and withdrew a flicker of it before closing the lid and trapping the majority of the hazardous substance in the pot once again. 

The hare carried the burning flame upon his fingertips like it was an ethereal golf ball from the underworld. Crowley watched him carefully, internally wincing at how long he endured the harsh touch of the Hellfire. But Eric did not appear in any discomfort whatsoever, having developed a rather high pain tolerance. He calmly grabbed one of the pans of the dessert with his free hand, and then threw his dash of Hellfire into it. 

The pan lit ablaze as the alcohol was hungrily devoured. Crowley’s glasses glinted with the crimson reflection, and through the fire attempted to reach for another victim to burn, Eric held the pan at a proper distance so it didn’t leap to anything else in the room. It burned for no more than a second before Eric swiped his hand through the red flame again, drawing it back to the confinement of his fingertips just as quickly as he’d released it. The food sizzled in the skillet, not burnt to a crisp, and not destroyed. It was perfectly cooked-- having been zapped to perfection, and having developed that sharp smokey taste that had them all in such a frenzy.

Crowley grinned, then laughed. “How did you do that? That was flawless.”

“Lots of practice,” Eric chuckled, holding his flaming hand well off to the side and setting the pan back on the dormant burner before reaching for the second one and turning to glance at his fellow demon.

His smile faltered as he saw Aziraphale behind him, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen. Crowley’s grin faded as well, and he turned to spot the angel, then whirled back to the Hellfire in brief alarm. But Eric was already curling his fingertips into his palm, covering them with his other hand and hiding the flames as if he’d been caught red-handed with something very dangerous-- which he had been.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale murmured, stepping further into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. Crowley almost appeared as if he wouldn’t let the bookkeeper pass, giving him a fearful look. But Aziraphale gave him a look as well, one that told him he knew what he was doing. The angel politely stepped around Crowley, smiled at Eric, then beamed at the uncooked dessert. “Go on. Show me.”

Eric hesitated, still clasping his hand over his fingers to hide their flame. He looked to Crowley, who was clearly not comfortable with the angel’s proximity to the fire trick but who also did not give the hare any sign that he should forgo it-- perhaps instead only giving him a reminder within his glare.

“A-alright.” Eric nervously uncovered his flaming fingers and reached for the uncooked pan. “Just don’t stand too close.”

Aziraphale’s smiled brightened as he glanced to the hare, pleased by his considerate warning. Crimson firelight gleamed in the bookkeeper’s fearless blue eyes as Eric performed his trick again, holding the pan even further away than before, and letting the Hellfire kiss the dessert even more briefly than before. It had been a long time since Aziraphale had seen Hellfire, and it was equally remarkable as it was terrifying. It thrilled him.

It had _not_ been all that long ago since _Crowley_ had seen it, and the last time he had…

The redhead stepped over to hover at the angel’s shoulder, standing perpendicular to him and sticking close beside him as their clothing brushed against each other. It was impossible for Aziraphale not to notice the demon’s anxiety, and so he discreetly slipped one of his hands out of his pocket and moved it behind his leg to grab Crowley’s hand. The bookkeeper held it secretly, giving it a small squeeze to ease him. Crowley's shoulders slowly lost their tension.

Eric looked very relieved when his trick concluded without causing disastrous injury. He quickly banished the Hellfire back into its pot and then ran his hand under cold water, grinning back at the pair while his purple-nailed copy plated the desserts. “Nothin’ to it!” he joked.

“Very fascinating,” Aziraphale complimented, letting Crowley’s hand go and accepting the bowl that was offered to him. “By the end of this year, you’re going to be the best chef in London. I just know it.”

Eric shuffled his feet and stuffed his hands in his apron pockets, shrugging. “Thanks, heh.” Maybe he’d make _that_ his first goal of conquest. The Vatican could wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the chilly weather, the morning sun was shining, the pigeons were cooing, and the leaves were-- well, dancing to their grave, to be frank. Still, it was a lovely day for an angel and a demon to visit Russell Square. Crowley was particularly interested in the spiraling descent of the reddened folioles, empathetic to the way they had been banished by their arboreal parents in preparation for the cold of winter.

But Aziraphale hardly noticed the fall massacre. His attention was elsewhere. The blonde found a suitable park bench to claim as their resting spot, and the two of them sat beside each other as bundled-up dog-walkers and joggers passed them by. A pair of old brass binoculars dangled from the angel’s bowtie-adorned neck.

“Aziraphale, I’m not an idiot,” Crowley sighed as the bookkeeper glanced around them as if ensuring they had not been followed, or spotted-- and were well enough away not to be bloody  _ heard-- _ by a particular someone. “I know we’re not actually here to birdwatch.”

“What are you talking about? Sure we are,” Aziraphale chuckled poorly, pardoning him a brief glance before turning over his left shoulder to look behind their bench.

“Really, angel, why are we here?” Crowley tilted his head, asking him to get on with it and drop his little game of secrecy.

The blonde continued staring behind them, twisting in his seat. “We’re…” he began, flashing another distracted smile at the redhead, “...enjoying the weather.” He lifted his left arm to rest it on the spine of the bench between them.

Aziraphale remained focused on a point behind them, and used his other hand to lift his binoculars to his eyes. The perplexed demon followed his gaze through the trees and cast iron fence to a white building across the street. He recalled what was in that direction, and pieced together with a goofy grin, “Oh, I see what you’re doing.”

The angel diligently continued ‘birdwatching.’

“You want to keep an eye on him.” Crowley mirrored the angel’s pose, lifting his right arm to drape it over the back of the park bench, also squinting through the tangle of barren branches.

With the aid of the binocular lenses, Aziraphale spotted Eric. The hare rounded a corner and trudged to the white building with a smile on his face and a brimming school satchel. He was greeted by a small pack of other university students.

“Of course I do. As much as possible,” the angel mumbled as he concentrated. He was the most indiscreet investigator Crowley had ever seen, and it was rather amusing.

“Well, there are  _ five  _ of him,” Crowley unwound himself and faced forward to leave the angel to his studious spying. “You’re only ever going to be able to keep an eye on a  _ few  _ of them at the very most.”

“I am aware of that, dear,” Aziraphale muttered with a terse tone, unappreciative of the reminder.

Crowley detected the bookkeeper’s anxiety, even though the angel tucked it deeply away within himself. The demon looked over at him. “It’s alright, angel. He can’t tell anyone, remembah?”

Aziraphale hesitated before exhaling a small sigh and lowering the binoculars for a moment. “I’m not….  _ as  _ worried about that anymore.” He squinted and lifted the binoculars to his eyes again.

“Then what  _ are _ you worried about?” Crowley bobbed his head and spoke kindly.

“If he’s fitting in well with the humans,” Aziraphale answered. “If he’s enjoying himself up here.”

The demon scoffed, “What’s that matter?”

Aziraphale’s voice dragged as if he believed that the demon ought to know better than to ask such a stupid question. “It matters.”

Eric was showing off his homework to the pack of students, a textbook open in his hands with a piece of notebook paper lying atop it. The humans were all snapping pictures of it and looking very pleased with him. One of them put an arm around his back as they all headed into the building. For a moment, Aziraphale felt a flash of what must have been parental protectiveness-- even though that was a ridiculous thing to feel.

But he analyzed Eric’s grin, and came to the conclusion that the hare knew very well that those humans weren’t actually his friends, and were only taking advantage of his work. But it didn’t matter, because the demon was simply enjoying tempting them to plagiarize. Aziraphale relaxed and lowered his binoculars as his subject disappeared to attend class. He straightened himself forward to join Crowley in enjoying the sights of the Square in front of them.

After a while, the angel spoke up with a thoroughly contemplative, “I think we can trust him, Crowley.”

Crowley looked at him so quickly that he could have snapped his own corporation’s neck.  _ “Wot?” _

The angel appeared as if he had almost found peace-- or something that seemed remarkably similar and would do for the time being. “I don't think he wants to hurt us,” he shook his blonde head.

The demon was flabbergasted, stuttering through the start of multiple sentences before he finally landed heavily on,  _ “He will! _ One day, when it suits him best.”

“I don’t think he will.”

Crowley shifted in his seat to turn his sprawled body towards the bookkeeper. “Is this about that Hellfire bit last night?” Aziraphale did not look at him, so he warned, “Angel, the  _ only  _ reason that he didn't  _ do _ anything was because  _ I _ was standin’ right there!”

“I don't think that was the only reason,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley rolled his head and folded his arms tightly across his chest, grumbling to himself about what other reasons the hare possibly could have had.

“He’s not going to harm us,” Aziraphale predicted while nodding, speaking for them again. “I'm willing to bet on it.”

Crowley reclaimed his side of the argument with a sneer, “Well,  _ I _ am  _ not.” _

“I think he’s done  _ plenty _ to prove his good intentions to us,” Aziraphale turned a slightly defensive glare over at his friend.

“No, he hasn’t!” Crowley whined in disbelief. He threw his hand into the air as if tossing bread crumbs to the non-existent ducks on the pathway in front of them. “There you go with your Heavenly lack of judgment again, seeing the bloody  _ righteousness  _ in everybody!”

“That’s not what this is,” the angel claimed.

“You are reading _much_ too far into that dinner.” Crowley was clearly upset. He continued whining, “I _told_ you, do _not_ underestimate him.”

Aziraphale ignored him and continued watching the Square.

After a pause of thought, the demon gave his friend a suspicious look and sat up straighter to interrogate the blonde. “If I didn’t  _ know  _ any better, Aziraphale,” he warned, “I’d worry that you’re just saying all this rubbish because you  _ want  _ to trust him.”

The angel did not say anything. But before long, he turned a cold gaze upon the demon. It was the closest thing to a hostile standoff they’d ever have with each other, and it was a rather pathetic one at that.

“Please don't blind yourself with your own hopes, Aziraphale,” Crowley pleaded with a shake of his head. “Stay cautious.”

“I have been  _ very  _ cautious with him, Crowley,” the bookkeeper snapped lightly. The nature of his outburst was harmless, even possibly sweet-- like the burst of a boba pearl. His tone remained benign as he muttered, “Daresay, more cautious than I’ve ever been with anyone.”  A hint of passive aggression appeared in the aftertaste of his words. “You're the one who’s become good chums with him.”

Crowley growled at him with an offended,  _ “Don't. _ Don't throw that in my face. I am  _ not  _ chums with him.”

“The clothes, the decorating, the nails, the music--” the angel listed, tilting his head this way and that.

“I did those things because _I had to.”_ Crowley exclaimed, refraining from adding a nasty, ‘Thanks to you.’

Aziraphale chuckled with a dash of cruelty, “Oh, no, you didn’t. You’re a terrible liar, my dear.”

Crowley stared Aziraphale down-- though the bookkeeper avoided his gaze and enjoyed the view of the park as if they weren’t arguing at all. 

“He told he me he  _ hates me.” _

Aziraphale’s expression shifted into something far less smug, and far less in denial. He then gave Crowley every ounce of his genuine attention, growing more and more concerned by the minute. He knew the serpent was not lying. Crowley would never lie to him. These revealed facts alarmed the blonde to his core.

“He told me that he’s been  _ envious  _ of me ever since Eden, because _ I _ got out of that literal Hell hole, and he _ didn’t.” _

The angel’s previous argumentative and self-righteousness demeanor had crumbled. Aziraphale now stared into the demon’s hidden eyes with a deep, compassionate worry. Crowley looked away after a moment, glaring at the scenery around them.

The bookkeeper hadn’t known about any of that. He hadn’t seen any hint of hatred in the hare’s eyes when he looked at Crowley, or when he laughed with Crowley, or when he had pulled out a chair for Crowley at the dinner table last night. But of course Eric wouldn’t let the Principality see something like that.

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed so deeply that it was at risk of becoming permanently fixed that way. He couldn't help but wonder how much of  _ Eric’s _ kindness had been dishonest this entire time. 

“He  _ despises  _ me,” Crowley grumbled hopelessly, trying his best to appear like it didn’t bother him. At least, not in an emotional way. It bothered his sense of security, but other than that… he shouldn’t feel anything else.

The serpent steered toward his point, including the bookkeeper into the mix. “And  _ you’re  _ an  _ angel. _ He’s been taught his whole life to hate angels. No matter how nice or honest you are to him, or how many stupid little things you two have in common, he is --and will always be--  _ a threat to you.” _

It was Aziraphale’s turn to try his best to appear like that didn’t bother him. The blonde placed his gaze on the gravel pathway in front of them, wishing there were actually ducks there to serve as distractions. The fallen leaves would have to suffice.

“He has plenty of reason to do either of us harm, and he  _ will, _ given the proper opportunity,” Crowley concluded miserably.

Aziraphale didn’t argue with him. But as he sat there, thinking, he found a spark of hope once again. “I used to think the same thing about you,’ he reminded, giving the redhead a fond reminiscent look. “A long time ago. And now look at us.”

“Don’t, angel. We’re  _ different  _ demons _ ,” _ Crowley repeated firmly. “I got out, and he didn’t.”

“He’s out  _ now,”  _ Aziraphale tossed a point of his finger behind them. “He’s attending university. He has a flat, and a bird, and he’s working, and cooking--”

“He’s enjoying a  _ vacation,” _ the serpent emphasized. “Or, he’s on an  _ assignment _ and this is all just a big show.”

“Weren’t  _ you  _ technically up here on an assignment too?”

Crowley gave him a look. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”

Aziraphale shifted to face the demon. “Do you feel unsafe with him?” Then, he clarified, patting his hands in the air between them, “I’m serious, Crowley, this isn’t part of my argument. I’m not aiming to lead you into a defeat.” The bookkeeper gave him a genuine look, wishing for his total honesty. “Do you feel that you are in immediate danger when you are with him?”

Crowley surveyed him suspiciously, then slowly relaxed, though he continued to squirm as he came to terms with his honest answer. “.... _ No,”  _ he admitted petulantly.

He was certain that-- despite the man’s assurances-- Aziraphale was about to use his answer against him in their argument. “Angel, the point I’m trying to make is that he’ll strike when we  _ least _ expect it! So the best thing for us to do is to  _ always _ expect it!”

Aziraphale did not continue their argument, and did not use his answer against him, which the demon greatly appreciated. The blonde simply sat there giving him a patient, loving look. Crowley’s defensive anxiety calmed. The bookkeeper really was only asking because he was concerned about whether the serpent felt safe or not.

Crowley was similarly concerned about Aziraphale, though in a sort of  _ opposite _ way. If the angel felt  _ too _ safe, he was putting himself in danger. “Can you  _ please _ promise me that you won’t let your guard down around him?” Crowley asked tiredly, tipping his head toward his friend.

“...Alright,” Aziraphale surrendered after some thought. “I promise.”

“Do you  _ really?” _ Crowley urged.

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s hand decided to rest upon the demon’s knee. “I really do.” Crowley didn’t have time to realize how much he valued the unexpected touch because after only a moment had passed, the bookkeeper’s hand retreated.

“I should be going.” Aziraphale stood up from the bench, announcing, “I’ve been meaning to pay a visit to a winery. For some strange reason, I find that my stock is rapidly depleting.” Surely it wasn't because Crowley had been spending more and more time at the bookshop every day. The angel beamed, offering, “Would you care to come along?”

Crowley yielded a hint of a smile, doing very well to conceal his excitement-- both about the winery and about Aziraphale’s brief touch-- and hauled himself to his feet. “Why not?”

* * *

Within a few days the fallen leaves had become buried by a thin layer of snow, which continued to fall lightly through the week. It was as if the early storms were testing themselves out before winter, when their performance would be graded heavily by every meteorologist in the country. Judging from the way the snow clouds were executing their warm-ups, they were sure to put on quite a show come December.

The secret entrance within the bookshop creaked and allowed in a brief draft of cold air as it was bumped open by the nose of a rabbit. The floorboard clapped closed as the creature popped up out of the hole. A vigorous shake of his fur transformed into a firm dusting off of his clothes.

Eric glanced around as he straightened his schoolbag over his shoulder, calling, “Aziraphale?” It was quieter than normal in the shop. Usually, Crowley could be heard blabbering away in one of the wings, and Aziraphale could be found close beside the serpent, sorting his scrolls or dating his records as he listened to his ramblings.

The hare thought that perhaps they weren’t home, and wondered if he should leave, until he heard the low call of the angel. “In here, Eric.” 

The demon found him in the corner of the east wing, reading another book upon the camelback sofa as an ordinary fire crackled gently in the hearth nearby. Eric entered the wing slowly and quietly-- having learned from last time. Sure enough, Crowley was there too, asleep. He lay sprawled on his back, using the angel’s stomach as a pillow. His eyes were closed, his jaw was slacked as he lightly snored, and his head was tilted to the side, facing the back of the couch. He appeared incomprehensibly peaceful, just as he had appeared last time, and Eric became mesmerized by it all over again.

There was no blanket across them today. Perhaps they had not felt it was necessary, with the fire going.

Eric’s attention moved up to the bookkeeper as he murmured, “You’re early. I wasn't expecting you.” Aziraphale remained focused on his book as he spoke. He was about halfway through a four-hundred page azure hardcover novel. 

Usually, Eric would have been in class at this time, but he explained, “I-I’m on break.”

“Ah.” The angel gave him a shallow glance from behind his reading spectacles. “Well maybe you could give us a heads up the next time you’re going to change your… visitation schedule.”

“Yeah, I-- that was my mistake. I’ll do that. Next time,” Eric stuttered, already inching away to retreat to a table. Aziraphale eyed him as he went, noting his apology before returning his focus upon his book.

Eric carefully began pulling out his schoolwork, quietly setting it all upon the table, which was more or less in line of sight of the couch but well enough away that their respective privacy was maintained. Before long, he was studiously scribbling away.

* * *

Throughout the next few hours, the angel looked up from his book on an undetected occasion or two, watching the hare busy himself with homework. He noticed that the boy’s textbooks were on law, government, and art. Eric also had a few script booklets, and a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets. The bookkeeper was rightly impressed. Over the past few weeks of knowing him, Eric had proven to be an incredible multitasker, and an utter sponge for knowledge.

For a fleeting moment, Aziraphale felt a dash of fondness for the hare. But it was quickly followed by shame. It was foolish of him to give into something as silly as that, as Crowley was so hypocritically eager to remind him. The angel struggled to reimmerse himself into the story in his hand, and ended up simply brooding about their argument in the park the other day.

He lowered his novel slightly, his tired gaze hovering upon the vacant places of the pages. As he succumbed to a deep internal contemplation, he became distracted by the pattern of Crowley’s hair, and stared at its vibrant color as he slowly ran his fingers through the man’s scalp. The fondness he had for the serpent  _ was _ something he could give in to, and in these rare moments when Crowley was with him, but not fixated upon him, he did give into it.

* * *

Eventually, Eric risked a glance over towards the couch. He saw that the angel had abandoned his book, and was instead enthralled by the red hair of the demon lying on top of him. The hare stared at them from the corner of his eye, attempting to decipher what he witnessed.

His attention snapped back to his school notes as Aziraphale suddenly let out a long sigh and muttered, “Well, I am knackered.”

Eric looked up again, curious.

“If you leave before we wake up, please do it quietly.” Aziraphale removed his spectacles and folded them before placing them on the end table behind his head, careful not to disturb Crowley’s slumber with his movement.

“A-are you going to sleep?” Eric stuttered, baffled.

“I'm going to  _ try _ to,” Aziraphale smiled tightly. He laid his open book over Crowley’s chest like it was a piece of armor and settled his arms over top of it. Before Eric could process what was happening, Aziraphale had closed his eyes and turned his face toward the couch, same as Crowley.

“Oh.” Eric sat at his table, stunned in confusion. “Well, goodnight, then…?” He thought this was very strange, perhaps a joke. 

“Goodnight.”

Eric glanced to the flames burning in the bookkeeper’s fireplace, which were being left unattended. Just like himself. What kind of foolish bloody angel left a demon and a fire unsupervised in his very, very flammable shop? The hare may have sat there for ten whole minutes struggling to find the trick, and waiting for the punchline to land. But there was no joke. There was no trick.

Now, the bookshop felt  _ eerily _ quiet. No gentle brushing of pages echoed through its open space. No pens scratched against Eric’s notebook. There were no subtle sniffs or sighs or clearings of one’s throat. The three of them had become statuesque and silent. 

That wasn't entirely true. Crowley was still snoring.

Eric stared at them fully, waiting for the angel to shift or stir. He did not. After a long time of waiting and debating, the hare whispered, “Aziraphale?” Then again, slightly louder, “Aziraphale?” But the bookkeeper did not blink, twitch, or alter the rhythm of his breath, which retreated and returned like ocean waves upon a peaceful shore. Aziraphale had truly fallen asleep.

Eric had never seen an angel sleep before. That was because angels  _ didn’t _ sleep, and neither did demons. Demons and angels also never touched--  _ especially _ each other. Yet there the two traitors lay. Asleep, and together. Eric watched them for nearly two hours, riveted by such a fascinating sight.

Finally, he rose from his seat, calling over at a bolder volume, “Aziraphale?”

Still, he received no response. He hesitantly stepped towards the east wing, skirting around the edge of the nook to give the pair a wide berth, heading towards the fire. At the hearth, he knelt and grabbed the poker, spreading the crumbly logs and embers flat. When he feared that he rustled and scraped too loudly, he glanced behind his shoulder, but neither creature was disturbed by his noise. Eric spread the extinguishing powder over the embers and then ran his bare hand through the mixture, feeling for any smoldering spots that he missed.

With the fire properly put out, he wiped his hand on his leg and carefully stood up, eager to return to his table and out of their area. But as he glanced back at the ineffable duo, he noticed something about Crowley’s hand. It was draped over the edge of the couch, dangling limply in the air, his fingertips only a hair away from brushing against the rug. His nails were still painted in an array of styles and colors, appearing just as perfectly manicured as the day Eric had designed them.

Eric glanced down at his own fingertips, which used to display a glamorous art deco design. Now his cuticles had regrown and the paint of his nails were chipped, exposing his natural keratin color at the edges. His other duplicates’ nails were similarly aged and worn. But Crowley’s nails miraculously hadn’t aged at all, and the serpent had not painted over them or removed their stars stickers and glitter stripes.

The hare did not return to his table. He stood there, only a few yards away, staring at the two of them. Crowley’s head subtly shifted with the rise and fall of his pillow; the angel’s diaphragm. In an alternating but complementary rhythm, Aziraphale’s book shifted with the rise and fall of its resting spot; the demon’s chest. The couple lay there like fallen dominoes, or slumped books on a shelf with no bookend.

Eric’s eyes had grown stern with inspection, unable to decide which subject to give his full attention to. 

He stepped closer.

Nothing about the pair changed, save for the gentle passing of a shadow across their forms. A blanket eased over them like the gossamer banner of a ghost. The furred cover carefully glided up from one end of the couch while Eric held his breath, feeling like was performing a high-risk surgery where the slightest wrong move could result in loss of limb-- his own.

After releasing the blanket to settle over Aziraphale’s hands and book that were upon Crowley’s chest, Eric stepped back, his dangerous task completed. But he flinched as a floorboard loudly creaked beneath the weight of his heel. He was immediately scrambling back to his table, rabbit feet catapulting him across the floor as his claws scraped against the hardwood in a brief racket of panic.

Leaping up to the chair, he transformed in another blink of an eye and assumed his best ‘deeply-studying’ pose, holding his head in one hand and wagging his pen with the other as he drilled his attention into the sanctuary of his notes.

Eric heard Crowley stir, his snoring interrupted by a great sigh of breath and a slight shift in the way he lay. But after a moment, he began snoring again while Aziraphale remained dead asleep.  Eric relaxed with a relieved sigh of his own. He stared at them for a while longer before folding his arms upon his books and resting his head upon them, trying to calm his drumming heart and match their slow breathing pattern. When he thought he had that part down, he tried closing his eyes, doing all he could to mimic their technique and learn how to sleep. 

Eventually, he got the hang of it, and lightly dozed off in a surface-level cat nap, which was probably best, in case  _ somebody _ had to wake up to deal with something unexpected, like an earthquake or a meteor landing.  He was pretty certain that those two would sleep right through one of those.

After a few moments, the angel finally released a clandestine smile.

* * *

“By the way…” the angel lifted another nail up to the demon. “I was right.”

Crowley accepted it with a scoff, “That’s a  _ terrible _ way to start a conversation.”

The bookkeeper beamed up at him with sheer delight as the redhead stood on a ladder and began hammering the nail lightly into the brick of the bookshop’s exterior, pinning down the last strand of the caution tape that zig-zagged across the facade of the building.

A.Z. Fell & Co. looked like a crime scene crossbred with a construction site, wrapped up hideously with caution tape and ‘KEEP OUT’ signs. They had been merrily decorating all morning, as if Condemnation were a new holiday that was fast on track to becoming the angel’s very favorite-- that is,  _ besides _ Hallow’s Eve.  And Christmas, of course.

“We can trust him, Crowley. I’m sure of it.” Aziraphale announced proudly, holding the box of nails close to his chest as a gentle autumn breeze passed above him, tugging at the demon’s scarf and rustling through his thick tuft of red hair.

“Oh, you are, are you?” Crowley sneered, finishing with the nail and brushing brick dust away from the caution tape. “What convinced you?”

"Nothing," Aziraphale began, shrugging innocently, "Just--"

Crowley shot him a firm look, warning, "What did you do?"

“Nothing, I..." the angel lied before attesting, "I can just  _ feel _ it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and began descending the ladder. “Oh, _Heaven.”_

“Give him a chance, Crowley.” Aziraphale held it steady for him with one hand, which was more than enough to keep it secure even in the case of a surprise apocalyptic tornado.

“Give him a chance, huh?” Crowley repeated, stepping off the fixture and spreading his arms. “A chance to do what? Something terrible?”

Aziraphale gave him a patient and deep nod. “If he wanted to hurt either of us, he would have done it by now.”

“I don’t believe that.” Crowley shook his head and trudged along the length of the shop, looking over their handiwork.

Aziraphale followed after him, holding the box of nails to his chest with one hand and carrying the ladder (upright) with three fingers poised near his shoulder as if it were as light as a hollow baton. “Well, I do.”

Crowley sighed tiredly. It was futile to keep arguing about this. He was rightly sick of it. None of what the angel said made him feel anything less than angry and terrified-- which were one in the same in his mind before they were sorted out into their proper categories of emotion.  He turned on the blonde with a hint of a snarl. “Look, angel, the faster we fulfill our side of that Vow that you so  _ generously _ bound BOTH of us to, the faster we can get rid of him.”

Aziraphale met his irritation with a calm counter of, “What if I don’t  _ want _ to get rid of him?"

Crowley ignored that question, though his teeth became slightly bared. He whirled around to continue examining the caution tape around the shop, marching along the pavement as if on a dire mission. “He said that he wanted to ‘blend in’ with the humans, and live among them, on Earth, as we do. And that we  _ both _ must  _ teach _ him how to live like ‘a real’ human,” he reiterated as he scanned the bricks. Aziraphale took a breath to refuel his patience, following after him slowly and refraining from commenting on how annoyingly precise of a memory he had.

“Now, _ I  _ say, he has  _ successfully _ transitioned over to living among them as we do. Wouldn’t you agree?” Crowley rotated over one shoulder to swagger backwards with a pointed look, and Aziraphale had to sheepishly agree. The demon gestured to ask him to place the ladder down against the shop in a certain spot, and the angel did with a gentle clatter.

After snatching another nail, Crowley ascended the ladder. Aziraphale held it steady against the wall with one hand as it rattled lightly. “As far as  _ ‘blending in’  _ with the humans, and living like  _ ‘a real’ _ one-- well, that’s most  _ vague _ thing in existence. Which is  _ good!”  _ Crowley declared. He began hammering a nail into the corner of a ‘BEWARE’ sign that had teetered, correcting its orientation. 

_ “ _ It means we can work  _ around _ that,” he plotted, mostly to himself, since Aziraphale clearly wasn’t interested in listening to him. He was certainly capable of being the worst team mate ever, in Crowley’s perturbed opinion-- which he would politely keep to himself, even when he was upset. The cogs continued turning in his crafty demonic mind.

“We can justifiably say that we’ve already accomplished all of that, for all those reasons you previously listed. The flat, the job, the schooling...” Satisfied with the way the sign was fixed, he turned to look down at the bookkeeper, holding up a pair of fingers. “All we’ve really left to do is two things, and then our obligations are complete.”

Aziraphale was looking up at him with a slightly grumpy look.

The demon noisily climbed down the ladder again. “So why don’t  _ you _ go get started on the Disneyland bit, and I’ll go do  _ my _ part.”

“Your part?” Aziraphale questioned with a curious hope. 

Crowley set the hammer into his box of nails and sighed as if he were about to take on a heavy but necessary burden. “It’s time for him to learn how to drive.”


	3. Chapter 3

It may as well have been Christmas morning. Eric was ecstatic. 

_“Really!?”_ He was wide-eyed with mouth agape as he stood in the doorway to his flat, dressed in his pyjamas. He had been practicing sleeping when Crowley had rang the bell.

“Yes, now hurry up,” Crowley nodded with a glare hidden behind his black goggles. “Get dressed-- in something _nice,_ preferably.”

Another Eric ran out from the bedroom, buttoning up his maroon shirt and fumbling with a necktie. “I’m dressed!” 

The serpent sighed and began tying his tie properly for him. Eric stood still for him while a couple of his own duplicates brought him a jacket; the black leather one from the ‘Yes’ pile. “Does that mean I get to drive _your_ car?”

Crowley rolled his head, drawling, “Abso-LUTELY--” then slid the knot high up against the hare’s throat as he had done before in the clothing store. _“Not.”_

Eric’s grin shattered as he flinched. He really should have been expecting that. The lesser demon stepped back and loosened his tie a bit, protesting in disappointment, “But--”

Crowley cut him off. “You’re getting your _own_ damned car.” The redhead then turned and lead the way to the elevator.

“I am!?” Eric cried, his grin returning to his face in full force. He trotted briskly behind the other demon, though he was careful to stay just out of arm’s reach.

Crowley whined over his shoulder, “Am I going to have to repeat myself for the rest of the day?”

Eric’s cheering voice echoed loudly through the apartment complex. “I’M GETTING A CAR!”

* * *

They were soon standing in the center of Milan’s most immaculate showroom. The expensive garage was full of sports cars that glimmered beneath an entire ceiling made of bright lights and gold trim. Eric understood now why he had been asked to dress nicely. The cars shone with a great brilliance of cleanliness, not a single one displaying any flaws-- not even the tiniest scratch or smudge. The demon wondered if they were sensitive like Aziraphale’s old books, and should only be touched with special gloves so that the natural oils of their skin did not damage them.

“Wow,” the hare gasped.

Crowley stood with his hands in his pockets, his vintage glasses also gleaming underneath the showroom lights. “Right then, pick one.”

Eric stood there in a bewildered disbelief. “Any one I want?”

“Any one you want, I really don’t care what you drive.” Crowley looked over his shoulder as the car dealer came out of his private office and called out a warm, boisterous Italian greeting. The redhead grinned and reciprocated a hearty, “Buongiorno! Come stai, amico mio?” as he sauntered over to meet him.

Apparently Crowley knew the car dealer rather well, and proceeded to have a full conversation with him in fluent Italian. Eric was able to pick up bits and pieces of it, but he was too distracted by all of the gleaming cars to really listen in.

He wandered through the rows of cars, his dark eyes scanning them slowly and carefully as if they were each a poem he was trying to decipher. Their bodies were all sorts of shapes and sizes, with sleek differences in intricate details. Some had logos of wings, shields, and in the Shelbys’ case, a cobra. Some had angry-looking headlights and others had even angrier-looking headlights. But they were all spectacular, in Eric’s humble opinion.

“How about this one?” he called, pointing at a little red Corvette.

Crowley turned over his shoulder and made a face at the vehicle that Eric had indicated. With a thoughtful pout, Crowley nodded over to a yellow car. “That one’s faster.”

“Oh, then I want that one!” 

Crowley pardoned himself from his discussion with the car dealer and strut over. “Are you sure? Ferrari’s are rather cliché, don’t you think?”

Eric had no idea what was cliché and what wasn't, but he trusted Crowley’s judgement. “I waaaant…” he glanced around again, then turned an excited grin to the redhead. “The very fastest car on Earth!”

“Oh, that would be a rocket car, Eric, you don’t want one of those,” Crowley tipped his head and shook it.

“Why not?”

“They’re hideous. Have you ever seen one?”

“No.”

Crowley made a face and began walking among the cars. “Trust me, they’re ugly. And they can’t really turn. Skidding around corners is half the fun of driving.” He vaguely gestured around at the cars as he strode through the rows of them. “You want one of these, trust me. It’s just a matter of finding the right one.”

Eric hurried after him. “Well, can I have the _second_ fastest car in the world, then?”

He almost bumped into the demon’s back as Crowley halted with a triumphant laugh, _“There_ it is!”

“There what is?” the hare peered around his shoulder.

“Your car,” Crowley grinned, lifting an arm to present, “The second fastest car in the world. The crème de la crème of supercars. The Bugatti Chiron.”

There it was, rotating on a mechanical pedestal. A heavenly beam of light might as well have descended from the Heavens to illuminate its rich purple color. The depth of entire galaxies sparkled in its thick paint. It was flanked by elongated crescents on either side of its body that appeared almost like ears. A small gravestone-shaped grille sat at the front of its nose, and a racing tail fin adorned the rear.

It stole Eric’s breath away. Luckily, he had just enough left to whisper, “It’s perfect.”

It was also more than eight million pounds, but that didn’t deter Crowley in the least bit. Why would it? He owned two-thirds of the dealership.

* * *

The vehicle purred like a preying panther as it rolled out from the garage. Even without the blinding lights of the showroom, it radiated with glory at every angle. With a smooth rotation of its virgin tires, it traversed onto the road and seized the street’s astonished attention. 

Eric admired every inch of its luxury interior, nearly deaf to Crowley’s order to watch how he operated the machine. The hare was thrown back into the leather of his seat as the serpent floored the gas pedal and gave the car’s reputation a proper run for its money. It could certainly accelerate impressively. In less than seven seconds, they had reached two-hundred kilometers per hour.

The violet motorcar shot through the city like a bullet, weaving in and out of lanes, skipping across intersections, and careening lightly around the obstacles that miraculously remained out of the way of its path.

Perhaps Crowley was showing off. Or perhaps, he wanted to make the hare just a _little_ sick. Just enough to change his mind about wanting to learn to drive. Or perhaps Crowley wanted to scare Eric thoroughly enough that he’d never want to be in another car with him ever, ever, _ever_ again.

Eric _was_ scared, at first. He’d never been in any contraption that moved so fast. The momentum and G-force stirred his stomach for a moment-- but only for a moment, then he grew accustomed to it, and found that he enjoyed it. He began giggling as he sat himself up straighter, no longer clinging onto his seat. He leaned forward, taking in all of the passing sights with ultimate satisfaction.

Crowley flashed him a pair of surprised looks, and then laid off on the acceleration with a hint of disappointment. It appeared that the only thing he’d accomplished was ensuring that the hare never wanted to ride to _end._

“This is brilliant!” Eric cried, glancing over to monitor every move Crowley made with the car. He began pointing at levers and buttons like a fascinated little boy in the cockpit of a space shuttle. “What’s that do?”

“That’s the hand brake. It helps you turn more sharply.”

“And this?”

“That’s the...” Crowley glanced over with a grimace. “Radio. You don’t need that.” He promptly grabbed the newly purchased eight-million-pound audio interface, ripped it out of the newly purchased eight-million-pound dashboard and chucked it out the newly purchased eight-million-pound window. Eric watched it clatter to the pavement and disappear behind them, thinking nothing of it.

“What’s that pedal?” he pointed.

“That’s the clutch, and it’s the main thing you’re gonna have to learn how to operate, so watch closely.”

As they traveled out of Italy, Eric took note of the patterns of the sticks and pedals, and memorized what they each did as Crowley explained. By the time that the serpent had taken them to their destination, he’d shown the hare how to shift the vehicle into any gear, how to perform a handbrake turn, and how to correct a fish tail, among many other essential tricks.

“Right, your turn,” the redhead declared, shutting off the engine and then opening his door. Eric exuberantly exited the car as well, his boots touching down upon sand. He squinted and glanced around their new environment, asking, “Where... are we?” It looked like where Armageddon was supposed to happen, except more orange.

“The middle of a desert. What’s it look like?” Crowley tossed him the key as he made his way around to the passenger side.

Eric flinched and barely caught the little piece of metal. He fingered it in nervous wonder, then glanced around them again. “It looks like a place where people go to _kill_ each other,” Eric answered with heavy sass, stepping well away from the passenger door as Crowley grabbed its frame. The Bugatti’s purple paint was already concealed with a fair coat of red.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the serpent drawled, leaning on the open door. “This is more of a place where people go to get rid of the victims they’ve _already_ killed.” He gave Eric a snarky smirk, then drew his eyes to the vacant horizon, which stretched as far as the eye could see. “It’s also where demons go to drive.”

“It is?” Eric had never heard of any kind of special place on Earth where demons went to drive.

“Well, one demon, at least,” Crowley grumbled. “Two, now. Perfect spot for it. You don’t have to worry about anything in your way. You don't have to worry about anything at all. Just you and your car.” He interrupted his own reminiscent train of thought to snap, “Now, get in. I’d rather not be here all day.”

Eric felt a tiny bit better about the isolation of the driving range, and his enthusiasm returned as he hurried around to the driver’s side and hopped in. The vehicle started with a loud rumble, sending chills down Eric’s back as he came to realize that he was suddenly in control of something with great power. _Horse_ power. Though, not exactly the kind of great ‘horse power’ as a certain four Apocalyptic somebodies.

He practiced a couple of wide turns to learn how the car behaved beneath his guidance. Its tires rolled and crunched over the thin layer of desert sand as it moved along relatively slowly at first. Crowley gave him an array of helpful reminders and tidbits, telling him to practice shifting gears and to test out the gas pedal and brakes. Eric’s handling was jerky and rough at first but he got better in no time, the sponge that he was.

“Right. Now let’s see how fast you can go,” the serpent permitted, sitting back in his seat as if he were relaxing to enjoy a film. Eric glanced at the speedometer, where his indicator hovered within the first sixth of the scale. “Well go on, then! Let her rip,” Crowley goaded with a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re _scared_ of a little speed, bunny boy.”

Eric responded to his challenge with a devilish grin, then floored the gas pedal. A great plume of sand shot up from behind them as the car took off across the terrain. Eric wasn't scared of going fast. No way. He’d wanted the second-fastest car in the world for a reason, and that reason was to push it to its limits. It was Crowley who should have been scared.

But Crowley only smirked and settled in as the speedometer skyrocketed. The car’s momentum built upon itself like a tower under time-lapsed construction. The pull of gravity upon their bodies changed with every rapidly-passing kilometer, pressing them deeper into their seats. As the vehicle roared to its peak speed, about four-hundred kilometers per hour, they both felt a similar peak of thrilling delight within their own drumming hearts. 

“Atta boy, Eric!” Crowley called above the deafening engine, grinning as Eric unleashed a howling, _“Wooooo!”_

The desert landscape became a blur around them, and as the speedometer indicator continued to rise past its final tick mark, Crowley began to feel a little... _less_ calm and collected about this entire endeavor. He was pretty certain they were about to break the sound barrier-- perhaps already _had,_ and were now approaching warp speed. They’d be transported through space and time to another universe if the hare kept this up. 

“A-alright, Eric, that’s…” The serpent began to feel a little nauseous, and then guiltily wondered if this was how Aziraphale felt when _he_ drove. God help the poor bookkeeper if he ever found himself trapped in a car with Eric at the wheel. “That’s enou-- _AAH!”_

Crowley’s heart (and stomach) leapt in his throat as Eric suddenly cranked the steering wheel, sending them into a dangerously teetering turn. The serpent was thrown against the interior side of this door, executing a quick miracle to keep the vehicle on at least three of its tires. The Bugatti settled back on its fourth wheel as Eric corrected the turn, laughing at both his daring maneuver and at Crowley’s startled expression. _“ERIC!”_

The hare executed another daring turn, cranking the steering wheel the opposite direction. The Bugatti screeched lightly as it tore up another cloud of dust, leaving an ‘S’ shape in the sand behind itself. Crowley did everything he could to avoid falling into the hare’s lap whilst performing another miracle to spare the car from tumbling over.

The lesser demon was a bloody _maniac_ behind the wheel, and his uncontrollable laughter only proved it. After sitting up and fixing his crooked glasses, Crowley whirled a frantic look at him. Then, the redhead began chuckling as well.

Crowley _loved_ this.

If the Bugatti still had its newly purchased eight-million-pound radio installed, it would have undoubtedly started playing Queen’s beloved _‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’_ But the radio was strewn in pieces on a street in Milan. Yet somehow, they both began to hear music playing through the car’s speakers anyway.

_Don’t stop me now._

_Don’t stop me now,_

_‘Cause I’m--_

“Use the brake!” Crowley suggested eagerly. Eric snatched the handbrake and executed another turn, pulling the lever to lock the rear wheels and send then careening in a tight turn.

_Havin’ a good time!_

_Havin’ a good time!_

“There you go!” Crowley called, laughing as he fell against his door again. 

_I’m gonna go, go go_

_There’s no stoppin’ me_

Eric was burning with amusement. “Watch this!” he cried, sending them into a full one-eighty degree spin with his next daring trick.

_I’m travelin’ at the speed of light_

_I wanna make a supersonic man outta you_

And thus began the adrenaline-fueled frenzy that would go down in history as the demonic joyride of the century. Before long, their criss-crossing tracks had carved crop circles across the entire desert, concealed only by the clouds they kicked up behind them. Their laughter could be easily heard above both the snarling engine and the blasting music. Their racket echoed through the shallow canyons of rock and stone as they ventured into more obstacle-sculpted territory.

Crowley performed whatever miracle was necessary to save their skin (and the car’s paint) while Eric learned how to better maneuver the Bugatti so the redhead wouldn’t have to perform any miracles at all. Or at least, not as many as before.

As they straightened out of another spiraling donut, Eric spotted a rather large dune off to the side. “We should do a jump!” he called.

“Wot!?” Crowley craned his head to follow the boy’s gaze.

“Let’s do a jump! Are you in?” Eric asked, glancing at the serpent with wild enthusiasm. 

Crowley stared at him with a blank expression. 

“You’re not _scared,_ are you?” the hare taunted wickedly before encouraging, “Come on, do you wannu?”

Crowley growled a deep, _“Hell_ yes,” and then pulled his seatbelt over himself. “Floor it, bunny boy!”

Eric flashed his pearly teeth, pulling his own seatbelt over his chest and buckling it firmly. Then, he directed the car towards the dune and flattened the gas pedal under his heel.

Crowley leaned forward expectantly, placing his hands on the newly purchased eight-million-pound dashboard of the sports car. There was a sinister gleam in his glasses as they ascended the natural ramp of the dune in the blink of an eye. They flew off the crest, rocketing skyward for a good distance before the car stalled, teetered backwards mid-air, and began falling. They braced themselves in the cabin with arms splayed and hands pressing against the ceiling and sides, screaming with fearful delight as the Bugatti turned end over end in a series of back flips. Butterflies churned in celebration throughout Eric’s stomach. Crowley was laughing so hard, he’d forgotten how to breathe. 

But in a peaceful moment of slowed time, Eric turned his bursting expression to the fluffy clouds of the sky that were rotating outside his driver side window. The clouds were curly and soft, just like Aziraphale’s hair. The demon realized he’d never been so close to Heaven before-- at least, that he could remember. Part of him wondered if they were tumbling right past Archangel Gabriel’s office window-- and if so; hoped that they were giving him just enough of a distraction from his work that he’d over-pour a Heavenly cup of coffee and spill it all over himself.

They sailed like a tossed pie, plummeting back down to Earth and miraculously touching down on all four tires with a harsh jolt before sliding down the other slope of the sand dune. Eric wrestled control of the steering wheel and guided it back on a semi-straight course through the dunes of the desert.

Crowley tipped his head back and cackled at the ceiling while he tried and failed to regain control of his laughter. The Bugatti slid to a sideways halt, completely caked in red dust. A disheveled wave of Crowley’s hand banished the dirt away, restoring the vehicle’s pristine factory shine. They both relaxed, catching their breath as Eric killed the engine. He slowly dropped his hands from the steering wheel, staring straight ahead with an exhilarated expression.

“That was _amazing,”_ he exhaled.

Crowley agreed through his giggles, “That was pretty spectacular.” The ripe apples of his cheeks supported his shades as he grinned out the window at the barren landscape. The last notes of Queen trickled away as if the band was also exhausted from the incredible amount of fun they all had shared together. 

The desert looked rather beautiful around them. The sun was setting, bathing it in even warmer colors before it allowed the cold of night to wash over it. The desert was calm and vacant. Seemingly endless, which was perfect for them to drive to their hearts’ content. And they had. The dry expanse was laced with the serpentine designs of their trail, displaying a map of soft scars in the Earth that told a thrilling story of joy and happiness. 

They’d spent all day there, despite Crowley’s earlier grumbling of not wanting to. But they’d both had a blast. Crowley had never been the passenger of such a wild ride. He was always the driver, which was just as much fun, but… well perhaps this had been a different kind of fun. It was almost… nice. 

Eric broke their silence. “Thank you.”

Crowley snapped his head to look at the other demon, who had never thanked him before.

“For teaching me how to drive.” Eric hesitantly gave him an indirect glance via the rear view mirror. Then, he pulled his gaze over to really look at him, smiling softly.

Crowley sat there for a moment in silence, until he struggled to correct, “But, I didn’t.” He elaborated in a flustered rush, “Not yet. That’s just the bare basics. I still have to…. Teach you how to drive in the _city.”_ He gestured out the window. “In _civilization,_ with all the… _rules,_ and whatnot.”

Eric scoffed and dragged a look up and down the redhead. “Are _you,_ of all demons, encouraging me to follow _rules?”_

“So you don’t _kill_ anyone,” Crowley rolled his head. “You don’t have any miracles, remember? You can’t go barreling through town like I do. There are peelers, and traffic lights, and... speed traps, and _crosswalks.”_ The word slithered off his tongue like they very worst of all. Lord, how he _hated_ crosswalks. “I’ve got to ensure you know how to drive like a _normal_ person.” He nodded, distracting himself by looking outside his window. “Like a _real_ human, remember?”

“Oh,” Eric hummed. “That’s right.”

“Yeah, so,” Crowley gestured outside again. “On the way back to the bookshop, we’re going to obey _all_ traffic laws. As painful as they are.” He was doing his very best to gently decline and quickly move on from the hare’s sentimental display of gratitude. “You’re going to head that way first. I’ll tell you when you have to start slowing down.”

Eric was listening to him, but ventured to politely interrupt, “Crowley?”

The redhead shut up and nervously gave him the opportunity to talk.

“Before we go back home--” Eric stopped himself, but it was too late. He internally scolded himself at the choice of word. He cleared his throat, “I mean, back to the _bookshop…”_

Crowley watched him from behind his glasses. For a split second, the serpent was unsure whether or not the demon’s correction was necessary.

Eric turned a childish smile to him. _“_ What if we had a race?”

Crowley lifted his eyebrows. “A race?”

“Yeah! Would you want to?”

“What, just for fun?”

Eric chuckled diffidently, “Well, what else would it be for?”

Crowley’s explanation was merciful. “I mean, usually when people race one another, it’s part of a _challenge._ There’s something at _stake.”_ His next question was curious, but forgiving. “Are you... challenging me?”

“Um.” Eric considered it, then grinned, “I guess so, if that’s how it works.”

Crowley gave an accepting shrug, “Alright. So what would you get if you won?”

“What would I get?” Eric repeated.

“Yeah, like….” The serpent rolled his head and cropped up an example without putting much thought into it. “Say if _I_ won, then... you have to teach me how to cook with Hellfire.” 

He rather liked that, actually. With a flashy smirk, he decided that was indeed what he would want if he won their proposed race. Once he got good at the talent, then _he_ could cook for Aziraphale anytime, and Eric’s little self-taught skill would no longer be unique to him. 

Eric didn’t see his conniving ploy, merely agreeing with a new understanding, “Oh! Alright. And if I win….” The hare wracked his brain. “If I win… then…” 

Crowley grew slightly nervous as the demon began concocting up something that was sure to be a royal pain in the arse.

But Eric actually came up short. He used to have an entire list of desires. He’d earned up quite a lot over the last few thousand years. Though, after pouring his stash of aspirations into the Holy Vow, he found himself rather satisfied. “...I think I already have everything I want,” he realized with a content smile.

Crowley was rather relieved, but that feeling was overshadowed by his surprise. “You’ve got to pick _something.”_

Eric turned a disappointed look at his steering wheel, searching desperately for something and still failing to find a speck of anything that was left to desire. He pretty much had everything imaginable.

“Tell you what, Eric,” Crowley interrupted him. “You think about it. And when you’ve thought of something, then we’ll race. Deal?”

The hare smiled over at him. “Deal.”

* * *

Eric maintained a more human-appropriate speed on the way back to the bookshop. Their cross-country journey was relatively accident-less, until the twilight faded into evening, and then Eric drew the car to an utter crawl and started to veer off the road towards the brambles and trees. “What the Heaven are you doing?” Crowley barked, adjusting the vehicle with his miraculous intervention. “Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you?”

“No, I just... I can’t really... _see_ anymore,” Eric squinted through the dark.

“Oh. Right.” Crowley flicked on the vehicle's headlights for him.

“Ah! That’s much better!”

Their journey was considerably smoother after that.

Eric was fantastic at using his turn signal, and he learned how to look before changing lanes after only one close call. He quickly caught on to the hieroglyphic language of the road signage and the meaning behind the colored stop lights. He obeyed all of the rules that he was taught by the very demon who had cemented a habit of always breaking them himself.

As they parked nicely in front of the not-actually-condemned bookshop, Crowley sighed, _“Now,_ you have learned how to drive.” Turning an emotionally tired look at the other demon, he muttered, “Congratulations, you’ve passed with _flying_ colors.”

Eric beamed proudly, killed the engine, and flicked off the headlights.

Crowley snapped his fingers to command the shop doors open for them, but he stopped in the entryway and took in the curious sight of what lay in the center of the room; a mountainous heap of old books. Nearly all of the shelves had been stripped empty, and their previous inhabitants were now scattered across the floor as if a great earthquake had shook the building in their absence. 

But no such natural disaster had happened. Instead, a supernatural one had happened.

Aziraphale had decided that it was time for some reorganization. He was literally standing knee-deep in a sea of maps and scrolls. When he looked up from the tome in his arms at the demons’ arrival, his focused expression bloomed into a warm smile. “So, how was it?”

“It was incredible!” Eric yipped.

Crowley shrugged indifferently. “Nothing _terribly_ tragic happened.”

The angel seemed to exhale a sigh he’d been holding in all day. “That is… _such_ a relief.” He closed the tome in his hands and set it down on a floor pile.

“You should come see the car Crowley bought me,” Eric grinned mischievously. “It’s quite a sight.”

The angel began making his way over to them, quirking a surprised but pleased expression at Crowley. “You… bought him a car?” He hadn’t needed to do that.

“Well, I wasn’t going to let him drive the _Bentley,”_ Crowley sneered, warning him not to interpret any silly meaning from it.

Aziraphale smiled knowingly and let it alone, following Eric outside. The bookkeeper halted at the sight of the dazzling purple Bugatti parked on his curb, then turned an upset shout back at the redhead, “You got him a _sports_ car?”

“Yeah, why not?” Crowley came to stand beside him as they watched a little rabbit frolic around his new gift.

Aziraphale was distraught. “Why didn’t you get him something… _ordinary??”_

The vehicle was the least inconspicuous thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Having that dazzling monster parked outside of his shop was sure to draw attention. Very unwanted attention, and lots of it. Humans enjoyed taking pictures of fancy cars. His stoop would be swarmed with selfie-stick-wielding vagrants, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Eric was human once more, resting his folded arms over the top of his car. He called a merry, “Thank you again, Mister Crowley!”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and turned a look to the redhead beside him, surprised by the hare’s words, and particularly curious about the ‘again’ part. Crowley’s indifferent facade was beginning to chip and crumble, and he appeared on the verge of feeling very uncomfortable. He was only doing this whole thing to get rid of the hare, and it didn’t feel good to receive a misplaced ‘thank you’ for it. 

After struggling to come up with something to respond with, he muttered a tight, “Don’t thank me, Eric,” and then tried to look very casual as he retreated inside the bookshop. Before he disappeared, however, he placed his hand upon the door frame and awkwardly corrected, “And… just ‘Crowley’ is fine.”

Aziraphale watched him go with a pained fondness, but banished the emotion and turned back to Eric. “Are you going to be able to get back home alright?”

Eric shifted his thoughtful gaze from the now-vacant doorway to the angel, then to the A.Z. Fell written on the building above the angel’s head. “Yeah,” he answered distractedly, murmuring, “I passed Mister Crowley’s lessons with flying colors, he said.” He forced a false smile back onto his face.

He opened the Bugatti’s door. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

“Eric,” Aziraphale’s voice stopped him before he could get in. “Would you like to have another lesson tomorrow?”

The hare felt a glimmer of hope, suspecting that Aziraphale might be able to cheer Crowley up and get him to go out to the desert with him again-- even though his task of teaching him to drive was finished. “On driving?”

“No, on something else.” Aziraphale smiled, offering, “Something that I would teach you.”

Eric pondered what he could mean, asking hesitantly, “What is it?” Aziraphale hadn’t really taught him anything yet, except perhaps how to handle Sky. And how to quietly study to himself in the corner.

“Something that I believe is very important for you to learn,” the angel answered vaguely. “In order to blend in with the humans,” he reminded.

“Oh.” Eric didn’t much appreciate the lack of a direct answer but he figured that whatever it was, it couldn’t be bad, since it was part of their Vow. “Sure.”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale nodded, his smile as bright as his hearth’s fire. “See you tomorrow, then.” As Eric closed the Bugatti door, the bookkeeper called, “And if you’d be so kind as to park down the street?”

Eric waved to show he’d heard him, and then pulled onto the road with a gentle rev of the powerful engine and a flick of his headlights. Aziraphale didn’t feel much better about the sports car, but so long as the hare parked in front of somebody else’s shop, he wouldn’t worry too much about the attention it drew to their street. He watched Eric cruise down the empty road-- and was touched to see that the hare made a full stop at the sign at the corner, and even used his signal light before taking the gentle turn. The blonde was very proud of him.

The angel returned inside the building with his hands clasped behind his back to staunch his excitement for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics to Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now' are not mine!


	4. Chapter 4

When Eric visited the bookshop the next morning, he effortlessly attracted the attention of every civilian and tourist in a half mile radius. That is, _his sweet ride_ effortlessly attracted the attention of every civilian and tourist in a half mile radius. Fortunately, the ‘pests’ (as Crowley had called them) coagulated in a thick crowd down the street from the bookshop, where Eric had parked as Aziraphale had requested.

He quite enjoyed the attention that he earned, and proceeded to have a lovely conversation with a group of tea-going gentleman and then another conversation with a gaggle of giggly young ladies. After a while of snapping a few pictures with his new admirers and answering their questions as best he could, the hare slipped away from his fans’ undying adoration and disappeared through the ‘secret entrance’ in the back alleyway.

* * *

The pile of books in the center of the shop had been cleared. Sort of. Rather, it appeared as if it had only been split into many piles, much like Eric and his own duplicates. The books were now rearranged in heaps that closed off sections of the librarian’s labyrinth, built with walls of knowledge that practically changed every time one dared to blink. The store felt tightly claustrophobic, even more so than the secret tunnel he’d just crawled through, and Eric immediately made his way toward the open center of the building. If it weren’t for the balconies’ compass overhead, Eric would have misplaced his direction.

Aziraphale was just finishing placing the last sorted scroll on a new rack that looked as if it were designed to display tubes of rolled wrapping paper. “Good morning, Eric.”

“Good morning,” the demon reciprocated, then asked, “Why are you reorganizing your bookshop?”

“Oh, I mix things up every so often. It keeps things interesting.” Aziraphale answered plainly. Eric suspected that he wasn’t being given the entire reason, but he would speculate about it later. For now, the hare shrugged his schoolbag off his shoulder and set it down against a pillar, followed soon by his wool overcoat and scarf. “Is Crowley here?”

“Not today,” Aziraphale announced. “Today Crowley is at his flat. He can’t be here all the time. Everyone needs their space on occasion.” He chuckled, “Regrettably, I tend to drive him mad sometimes.” The sound deflated rather quickly as if he were regretful about even making a joke out of such a thing.

“What did you want to teach me today?” Eric asked, slipping his hands in his pockets as he glanced around the shop. It looked so different now. Old antiques had been dug up from the depths and placed on the desk at the edge of the cleared space, including a small weathered globe, a few fragile model ships, and an original 1888 Kodak film camera.

“I think it’s time that you learned how to fight.”

Eric’s attention snapped back to the bookkeeper. “How to fight?”

The blonde removed two empty dowel rods from the rack of scrolls and tested their weight in his hands, explaining, “So you can better defend yourself, if the need arises.” He twirled one with a flick of his wrist before deciding that it would do just fine.

“But I already know how to fight.” Eric grew defensive, narrowing his mascara-laden eyes, “What, just because I have all these scars, you think I don’t know how to fight?”

“Now, I didn’t say that.” Aziraphale tossed him a parental look. “I think you know how to fight the _demonic_ way, but that is not always the _best_ way.”

Eric’s lip curled in a sneer. “The ‘best’ way?” He thought that was a pretty typical thing to say, for an angel. “Let me guess, you’re going to teach me how to fight like one of God’s precious soldiers,” he scoffed in disgust.

Aziraphale remained kind and patient with him. “No, I’m going to teach you to fight like a human.”

Eric was still sour-faced, and so the bookkeeper continued speaking while moving toward the center of the space with the two wooden rods bouncing in his relaxed grip, “As you know, demons fight with Hellfire, and their bare hands.”

“And their teeth,” Eric added.

“Yes, and their teeth.” Stopping in the center of the room, Aziraphale winced politely, “That’s all a little... _barbaric,_ don’t you think?”

Eric couldn’t argue with that, but what did it matter? He cocked his head and played devil’s (rather, humans’) advocate. “Humans fight with their bare hands too.”

“Yes, when they’re intoxicated at a bar. Not very civil, is it?” Aziraphale shook his head, his point being proven. “Humans more often fight with _weapons,_ such as these.” The sticks transformed in his grip, flattening into wooden blades and sprouting quillons above where the angel’s knuckles wrapped around them. 

_“Swords?”_ Eric burst into a snicker. Weapons like those were nothing more than comical. “Humans haven’t fought with swords for _centuries.”_

“That’s not true, actually,” Aziraphale corrected merrily, pointing out the fact that, “Plenty of humans still use them. In sporting events, for instance.”

Eric made a face and tipped his head. “Well…. They use _guns_ more often,” he lifted his chin with his own dash of pride, having undeniably won that argument.

Aziraphale took a careful breath. He wasn't surprised that the topic of firearms came up, but he sternly advised, “It is best to use guns only in emergencies.” The blonde added with a solemn, reminiscent mutter, “Such as in the event of a War.” It was unfortunate that the humans were always so quick to fall to War’s temptations.

“Trust me Eric, you will want to learn how to wield _this.”_ The bookkeeper tossed one sword over to the hare, who caught it with a skeptical smirk. 

There was an attitude in the boy’s tone as if he were certain the blonde was joking. “Trust an _angel?”_

He’d never.

But his smirk faded, and the cruel humor behind it faded as well. Perhaps it wasn’t such a silly thing, to trust one very specific angel. In this particular case. Just this one time.

Aziraphale waited.

The hare turned over the object in his hands, feeling the blunt edge of the blade and calculating its weight. He still believed that swords were a _very_ outdated weapon, and thought that these wooden ones were insultingly childish, but Eric kept his opinions to himself, only muttering, “If you say so.”

Then he peered up at the angel with a suspicious look. “Why do you want to teach me this?”

“Because one day you might find yourself in a bad situation,” Aziraphale responded, adding quietly, “Again.” He placed the tip of his practice blade on the ground, spinning it gently from the pommel. “Humans do rob each other. And especially with that fancy car of yours, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone came up to you one day wishing to steal it right out from under you.” He flashed a pathetic smile, then allowed it to disintegrate.

More somberly, he glanced to the floor and admitted, “It will help me sleep at night. If I know that you can handle yourself in a predicament such as that.”

Eric’s critical disinclination dissolved. He understood how difficult it could be to fall asleep. Aziraphale and Crowley made it look rather easy, and _natural,_ as the humans did. But the hare was surprised to hear that the angel would be kept awake thinking about him in that way. _Worrying_ about him, if he was interpreting the bookkeeper’s words correctly.

So he decided to give it a try-- just to humor the man. Eric knew he could already handle himself if some haphazard human tried to hurt him, (and if he couldn't, then he had plenty of other duplicates to spare) but knowing some silly swordplay might be fun. He might even end up being good at it. Besides, what demon could say that they’ve been trained how to fight by an angel? No ordinary angel would ever offer such a thing.

The special offer of such a strange lesson intrigued the hare, so he complied. “Okay. Teach me.”

* * *

As the mister spritzed the broad leaves of the houseplants with refreshing spring water, it made a sound similar to a wheezing hiss. The plants didn’t mind. They’d much rather hear the bottle’s hiss than that of their tormenting caretaker’s.

But Crowley paced among his indoor garden silently. He was more silent than usual, and it scared the plants almost as deeply as when he screamed at them. He was clearly not thinking about them, and they wanted to keep it that way. They held perfectly still as they received their lukewarm humidity, not wanting to give him any reason to snap out of his thoughts and in turn snap at them.

While Crowley prowled, he felt a prickle along his back, as if something behind him was tugging at every atom along his spine, urging him to turn around and look upon it. He did turn around, a few times, but there was nothing out of the ordinary to look upon. Despite his unsettled intuition, nobody else was in his flat. The television was unplugged and covered by a black heavy tarp, just as it had been every day since Armadidn’t. His phone was still dormant and firmly sandwiched with its receiver. His doors were locked and his windows were closed. Not even a single fruit fly had snuck into his flat.

Still, he couldn’t relax. Not completely. He returned (for the fifth time) to focus upon his plants, making meticulous work of examining their leaves and puffing clouds of mist toward their strong, healthy stalks. His sunfire eyes flickered to the bottle in his hands, watching the clean spring water glisten within it from the gentle rays of the morning light.

Finally, he drew his eyes to the person behind him who had been bothering him so relentlessly. She gave him a tempting smile from the far wall.

* * *

Aziraphale and Eric stood side by side in the center of the bookshop, both facing north with plenty of room around each of them. The bookkeeper performed a strike in the open air, followed by Eric’s mimicking strike. The hare copied his movements carefully, wanting to ensure that he replicated each one correctly. “What do I do with my other hand?” he asked.

“Just leave it at your side. It can help you balance. Or you could hold them together, if you’d like, for delivering more powerful hits.” The angel placed his left hand over top of his right and demonstrated a shoulder-level swing as if the sword was an American baseball bat. Then Eric stepped up to the metaphorical plate and hit a second home run. The hare tried again after Aziraphale reminded him to rotate his hips and put his whole body into the action.

“Can I hold another sword with it?” Eric asked, still eager to occupy his second hand with something more.

Aziraphale smiled at his enthusiasm, but declined. “We’ll save dual-wielding for another day. For now, let's just focus on the basics.”

“Can I use my claws? Or Hellfire?” Eric asked with even more enthusiasm, removing one hand from the hilt of his sword to poise his fingers as if he were about to throw a flaming ball. The stack of books in front of him would be very wise not to provoke his attack. It was a good thing they were inanimate.

Aziraphale kept the same amount of patience in his smile. “No claws, no Hellfire. Just weapons.” 

Eric pouted as he abandoned the tension in his fingers. He was doing very well to hold back a juvenile sigh.

“The objective is to disarm your opponent, not to kill them,” Aziraphale explained as he guided him through a few more maneuvers, standing beside the demon and moving slowly enough so that Eric could take note of every shift of his heel, twist of his wrist, and extension of his arm.

Eventually, Eric stopped copying the man, instead watching him with a bored expression.

“You only kill if you really _have_ to, but that is rare,” the angel preached, his free hand poised behind him, resting on the small of his back. He was rather nit picky about proper form, and favored fencing techniques, even though they were using broadswords. “It’s often not even necessary to seriously injure them. Humans get scared away from a fight pretty easily.” 

Eric tilted his head and looked down at the wooden toy in his hand. “What if I’m... _not_ fighting a human?”

That was, after all, what this lesson was _really_ for. Eric was no moron. He would never need to fight a human in this way-- and not just because they used guns more often nowadays. No, Aziraphale was giving him this lesson because he’d seen his collection of scars, and no human had caused those scars.

Aziraphale did not immediately answer. He retracted himself from a plunging pose. “Then you do whatever it takes to defend yourself,” he answered hollowly, straightening his back and lowering the point of his sword to the rug beneath him.

“What if I’m fighting an angel?” Eric prompted, wondering just how much information he could extract from this lesson. Wondering what, exactly, it would take to defend himself in _that_ situation.

Aziraphale remained facing away from him. He did not show the hare any additional moves. “Then you run,” the angel answered curtly, turning an unfortunate half-smile in his general direction. “As fast as you can.”

“Run? Really?” Eric scoffed, revealing another glimpse of his bratty side. He thought it was a rather cowardly and biased piece of advice; encouraging him to flee. “Why? You don’t think I could kill an angel?”

“Not unless you catch one off guard, or strike first,” Aziraphale replied, finally giving the demon his honest attention. If Eric was determined to ask him the difficult questions, then the blonde was going to give him the difficult answers. “All it takes is a flash of Holy Light and you’re a blind, sitting duck. Or, in your case, a rabbit.”

Eric thought about that for a while, and came to believe it was true. Still, he countered curiously, “But only higher angels can do that, right?”

He was clearly fishing for further information, and Aziraphale knew he had to be careful how much he gave. “Not necessarily.”

“Can _you_ do that?” It was clear by Eric’s next comment, and his humored smirk, that he didn’t think Aziraphale could. “Or is that why you favor your silly swords so much?”

Aziraphale’s neutral (if someone annoyed) expression did not shift. After a thoughtful pause, he told him, “I _can_ produce Holy Light,” and partnered it with a smile that told him not to worry. “But I’m not going to.”

Eric wasn't worried. He was calling what he believed to be Aziraphale’s bluff. “Prove it. Show me,” he nodded to the man’s hands, which were resting on the pommel of his vertical sword.

“I _can’t_ show you,” Aziraphale answered with a shake of his head. “It would hurt you, and I cannot harm you, remember?” He flashed a quick, tight smile. Evidently, that Holy Vow came in handy sometimes, such as when he aimed to secure the last word.

Eric peered at him for a while, then teased flirtatiously, “I think you’re _lying.”_

Aziraphale’s expression darkened.

“I don’t think you _can_ produce Light,” Eric turned his nose up and smirked, trying to elicit some sort of proof from the bookkeeper.

Aziraphale slowly blinked and released a sigh, “It doesn’t matter what you _think._ I have told you the truth, and the truth is I can.”

Eric lifted a shoulder. “Fine,” he surrendered, petulantly informing him, “I’ll ask Crowley.”

Aziraphale answered quickly but calmly, telling him that there was no need for him to go to that trouble. “I’ve never shown Crowley either.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason. It would hurt him.”

Eric’s face lit up as a few things began to click into place within the scrambled puzzle of his mind. “Oh! I get it, now!” he chuckled with a dash of relief. “That makes sense!” 

Aziraphale furrowed his brow.

“You’re incapable of hurting him as well, aren’t you?” Eric identified with a wagging point of his finger. “Did you make another Holy Vow with him, a long time ago?”

“No,” Aziraphale cocked his head, then elaborated, “No, there’s nothing stopping me from…” He didn’t finish the sentence, instead moving on to declare firmly, “But I wouldn’t. Ever.”

That was a strange thing for Eric to hear. “Why not?” he asked, crestfallen as his epiphany shattered. Whatever explanation he believed he’d discovered had vanished, and he was once again left searching for one.

“Because I don’t _want_ to,” Aziraphale answered, his patience wearing a bit thin. “And I never _will_ want to.”

“Why not?” Eric asked a third time.

Aziraphale sighed. “Because he is my _friend,_ Eric.”

It seemed as if the angel’s explanation was meant to be an obvious one, yet Eric’s face scrunched up as he computed it. Apparently, ‘being friends’ with someone not only meant that neither individual had any immediate desire to harm one another-- it meant that they would  _ never _ have a desire to harm one another. That was a foreign concept to the hare, like so many other concepts he’d pondered in the past couple of weeks. It made him question a few things about himself, actually, but he tried not to become distracted.

“What if  _ he _ fights  _ you?”  _ Eric asked, turning the conversation back on the angel and questioning the solidity of Aziraphale’s ridiculous claim-- that he’d  _ never _ want to harm a demon. Sure, Aziraphale and Crowley miraculously got along with one another for the majority of the time, but the fact was that they were still mortal enemies at their core. __

Right?

_ “ _ Like,  _ really _ fights you, not just bickering?” Eric elaborated.

“He would never do that.” Aziraphale was thoroughly disinterested in continuing this conversation, looking down at his wooden sword as he twisted its tip gently into the carpet again.

“But what if he does?”

The angel grew irritated. “Eric.”

“What!?” the hare protested. He demanded an answer-- a real one, not some vague angelic rubbish, “It’s a serious question!”

“And I’m giving you a serious answer.” Aziraphale raised his voice slightly, glowering at him, “He would _never_ do that.”

Eric pouted, then raised a pointed finger as his expression blossomed, finding a scenario that was perfect to use in his inquisitive argument. “Aha! If we were at  _ War,  _ then he’d  _ have to!  _ He wouldn’t have a choice. If that Armageddon would’a happened, then--” But his enthusiasm fizzled, and suddenly, he didn’t care about winning his game of ‘what-ifs’ anymore.

“Wait a minute, that’s why you two stopped the Apocalypse, isn’t it?” His face was so full of wonder, he almost looked heartbroken. “So you wouldn’t have to fight each other in the War.” 

Aziraphale’s silence was enough of an answer. 

Eric had never thought of it that way. He’d thought they’d just been misbehaving for the Hell (or Heaven) of it. He’d thought they’d just been ‘bad angels’ and ‘good demons,’ (which were both naughty in their own respective ways) for fun. He’d thought they’d gone rogue against the Great Plan in an act of selfishness. But they hadn’t been selfish at all. 

It was difficult for Eric to come to terms with the fact that they were simply _such_ great friends that they would do all of that, and risk so much, and disobey their orders, and abandon their sides-- for _each other._

The Principality quietly requested, “That’s enough questions, Eric.”

Eric didn’t ask any more.

Eager to return to the topic of their lesson, Aziraphale calmly picked up his sword, though it remained lowered at his side. Bitterly, he muttered, “And for your information, no, even if that War _had_ happened, I still would never harm him.”

Eric stared at the rug beneath them, trying to fathom what he’d learned about the unlikely pair’s friendship. Trying to imagine a scenario such as that, a total war between Heaven and Hell, and yet trying to picture one individual from each side absolutely _refusing_ to bring each other harm… it was ineffable. 

It was also another word. A four-lettered one, but Eric couldn’t begin to comprehend that one yet.

The hare’s perplexed trance was broken by Aziraphale’s order, “Now, hit me.” 

A new wave of confusion seized the demon.

Aziraphale’s expression held a clean slate of emotion. He gestured with his free hand, his sword still resting at his side. “Come on, then, I haven’t got all day.”

Eric hesitantly remembered his own wooden sword in his hand, and glanced down at it as though he wasn't sure what the Heaven Aziraphale was requesting. The bookkeeper was _definitely_ requesting for him to take a whack at him with that sword. Eric didn't know if he was comfortable with this or not. “B-but I thought you said there’d be no fighting in your shop,” he stammered.

“Well, this isn’t really _fighting._ It’s _sparring,”_ Aziraphale justified with a shrug-- almost in a similar fashion to the way Crowley would shrug during one of his passionately indifferent tangents. “It’s practice. Go on.”

Crowley was the last thing that Eric wanted to be reminded of in this moment. He slowly moved his sword forward as if about to gently dust a fragile cobweb. Aziraphale lazily turned up his own sword to match it, producing a very weak clack that wasn't even worth clacking. “That was pathetic, Eric,” the angel criticized in disappointment, ordering, “Again.” 

Eric attempted another careful swat, and wood clacked against wood once more.

“Harder.”

Eric swung a teensy bit harder, and a slightly louder clack rang through the space.

“Faster.”

Eric’s sword moved a smidgeon faster. Clack.

“You’re holding back,” Aziraphale warned with a tilt of his head.

Eric felt guilty about his unwillingness to obey, but he was thoroughly torn. The hare whined through a whisper as if worried that somebody else might hear him, “I don’t want to hit you.”

Aziraphale gave him a flat look, his intrigue heavily disguised. “Why not?” There may have been a hint of smirk at the corner of his lip. Finally, it was his turn to ask a question.

“Crowley would--”

 _“Forget about Crowley,”_ Aziraphale snapped, startling Eric with the force of his words. They landed on his ears (and ear-like tufts of hair) like a slap. Aziraphale’s voice was gentle in the next second. “Crowley’s not here, right now.” The blonde smiled radiantly, “I am, and I’m ordering you to _try_ and hit me.”

Eric eyed him nervously, beginning to sweat. But he did not dare attempt another swing, not even a half-hearted one. Apprehensively, he murmured an excuse of, “....I will not take orders from any angel,” and numbed the bitterness he held toward that word for fear of upsetting the bookkeeper further.

Aziraphale’s smiling stare penetrated into his eyes. His gaze was as deep, sharp, mysterious, and blue as the Mariana Trench. Eric didn’t know what to fear more at the moment, Aziraphale for not hitting him, or Crowley for hitting him. The boy had no choice but to break his eye contact with the angel and look away in surrender.

The angel released his imprisoning stare with a sugar-coated blink and a peaceful sigh, “Alright.” 

Eric relaxed, wondering if he should apologize for failing their lesson.

But Aziraphale wasn't anywhere near done. “How about I try to hit _you?”_

Eric flinched and lifted his sword to block a sudden swing of the angel’s weapon. _Clack!_ The hare’s bewildered gaze locked onto the angel’s sweet smile. 

“What marvelous reflexes!” the bookkeeper complimented excitedly. 

Learning moves side-by-side was one thing, but now Eric had suddenly found himself fighting-- no, sparring-- with an angel. It was quite frightening. He kept his sword at the ready in case he needed to parry another sudden attack.

But Aziraphale maneuvered his sword calmly. “Now, if I swing this way…” He gave him a much gentler, slower swing. Eric blocked it easily, producing a harmless clack but still eyeing him with trepidation. The Principality had proven to be very unpredictable indeed, and Eric had been spooked into a state of instinctual paranoia.

“Not bad, but try this.” Keeping their weapons matched together, Aziraphale extended his free hand to guide Eric’s elbow up into a more raised level. With a wary look, Eric allowed the blonde to touch him. “Remember how to hold Sky? Keep your arm strong. Now, push.”

Aziraphale scraped his blade gently down Eric’s, and Eric reciprocated the small amount of pressure. The bookkeeper allowed him to turn over their blades, with Eric’s now lying on top, pinning the angel’s downward. “See? There you are. And to get out of this, the person on the bottom would have to step away.” Aziraphale did so, and they separated. 

The bookkeeper continued to lead a slow, delicate exchange of hits. Eric gradually grew relaxed again as his trust rebuilt, falling in rhythm as he parried each careful swing.

“And if I do this... yes, you counter with that. Now, freeze for a moment. You see how you’ve exposed your back? That’s a prime place for me to strike next,” Aziraphale pointed out. “But, if you follow through with a turn...” He used his free arm to guide Eric through a ballroom-like spin, their swords scraping lightly against one another for a moment. “Left foot out. There. Now you’ve placed yourself in a better position.”

Eric smiled shyly, enjoying their lesson. “Oh. Neat!” They both stood up to assume a casual stance.

“It’s like a dance,” Aziraphale smiled comfortably, his demeanor no longer anything akin to mischievous. “You just have to read your partner’s body language. Or in this case, your _opponent’s_ body language. It‘ll come quite naturally, the more you do it.”

Eric had never danced before, but he’d seen Crowley bob his head around. That was dancing, wasn't it? This was nothing like that, but he didn’t argue with the Principality. The hare faced an open space and practiced a strike in the vacant air, then spun to re-position himself directly after.

Aziraphale observed, chuckling, “Good.” The demon really was quite remarkable at learning things quickly.

“Now, shall we try a little faster?” the angel suggested kindly. “I’ll start.”

Eric appeared slightly skittish again, but he faced the bookkeeper with his blade grasped securely in two hands. Aziraphale was very clear with his body language, and Eric didn’t have to guess when the first strike was on its way. He parried three medium-paced hits, then four more after a pause.

“Don’t just defend, Eric. You must fight back as well.”

Eric remained focused as their wooden swords crossed with a series of clacks. He refused to make a swipe of his own.

“Come on, give a strike,” the angel encouraged.

Eric glanced to the angel’s eyes, which remained kind and playful. Finally, he performed a smooth cut. Aziraphale easily parried it. “There you go, and another.” 

Eric gave another, then blocked one of Aziraphale’s gentle strikes, then delivered a gentle one of his own. They took turns, gradually growing bolder with their attacks. Hit, block, hit twice, block once, hit once, block twice. 

“See? It’s _fun,”_ the angel grinned, urging, _“Faster.”_

Eric nervously grinned back, admitting that it  _ was  _ sort of entertaining. They were playing together, like how human children played when they ran around swinging sticks at each other, or when they participated in that hand-clapping game called patty cake. The hare hadn’t expected Aziraphale to be the  _ playing _ type, but he was actually quite skilled at it. It felt kind of  _ good  _ to fall into a synchronized pattern with the bookkeeper. Eric had never experienced anything like this, and he thought that if this was what dancing was like, then he’d love to learn that next.

The bookkeeper eyed him fondly as they played. He had taught the demon a very romanticised version of swordplay that was more akin to stage combat than true dueling. It was romanticised in the same way that being a knight was romanticized in stories and books and movies of the modern age. Aziraphale knew what it was really like to fight with a sword, and he knew what it was really like to be a knight. It was not glamorous. It was not fun. The truth of things were often much darker than the bright renditions crafted up by hope-filled youth.

But the angel allowed his pupil to smile, and allowed him to pretend.

After a while, they both relaxed, lightly catching their breath between their chuckles. “Splendid,” Aziraphale beamed proudly. “You’re quite good at that, you know.” It had been a while since he’d found anyone worth sparring with. Dear Crowley was complete rubbish at it, bless his flailing heart. It was exhilarating to learn that Eric had a bit of a talent for swordplay-- at least when he felt comfortable enough to actually make an effort in his strikes. 

Eric handed back the wooden sword with a satisfied grin. That hadn’t been so boring or scary after all, though he was slightly relieved that they were done. “Thanks. That was fun.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling a bit giddy and in great disbelief that he had sparred with an angel.

Aziraphale twirled the blades in each hand in a casual showmanlike fashion. “Oh, we’re not done yet.”

As they spun in his hands, they began to gleam and reflect the soft rays of the sunlight that filtered in through the dusty blinds. Eric’s grin collapsed. 

“I think you’re ready to use  _ steel,” _ Aziraphale announced as he tightly clasped each hilt, ceasing the blades’ twirling in an instant. He extended one very real sword back to Eric, its sharp point aiming towards the ground.

Eric hesitated to take it, having grown anxious and uncomfortable again. “Uhh…” The sword was considerably heavier than it had been before its transformation. This was no toy. This was a real weapon, capable of real damage. “I don't know if this is--”

“What are you afraid of?” Aziraphale grinned with a teasing excitement. He didn’t wait for a reply, continuing to spur on the hare with a sportsmanlike, “Come on, Eric!” 

The angel added a playful, “Think fast!” and then swiped.

Eric flinched to block the sharp steel.

_ CLANG. _

The demon felt the reverberation of their blades all the way through his palm and wrist. He clutched his sword in front of his tensed body with both hands, bewildered once more.

Aziraphale removed his weapon from their cross and confidently twirled it behind himself. “There. Nothing to it!” the bookkeeper smirked, using the same line that Eric had used after he’d demonstrated his Hellacious cooking. There definitely  _ was  _ something to it, and it was a very  _ dangerous  _ something, yet he was making a trivial joke out of it.

Eric glared at him. The blonde wasn't acting like himself. He was putting on a cocky show and acting like a  _ patronizing _ saint-- like an angel such as  _ Gabriel _ , and Eric did not like it.

Aziraphale’s sword came at him again-- this time without any warning in his body language, and Eric flinched to clumsily parry it once more. Then again, and again, the angel sent one hit after another as Eric hurried to defend himself. Clangs rang out through the bookshop, building a steady beat that served as the musical introduction to their clamorous dance.

The demon fell into a rhythm, twisting his torso and angling his elbows to block each swing. His confidence slowly returned but he remained sternly focused, no longer sure if they were sparring or fighting. The vibrations of their steel resonated through his bones, and he found himself needing to brace his whole body against each hit as Aziraphale struck harder and harder.

When Aziraphale placed his second hand upon his hilt, Eric felt a flash of fear, knowing what was coming. Even still, the hare’s sword was knocked clean out of his grip as the angel swung an extra-powerful home run worthy hit. The flying blade clattered loudly against a pillar and Eric jumped as the point of Aziraphale’s sword whisked to his chest. His heart was thumping so vigorously, the thought it might explode before the Principality could even puncture it. 

But the angel did no such thing. Instead, Aziraphale removed his weapon from Eric’s chest and smiled brightly, “Score for me!”

Eric struggled to catch his fearful breath, convinced he was ‘being trained’ by a complete madman. At the very least, convinced he had allowed himself to be lured straight into an angelic trap. What had he been _thinking,_ agreeing to spar with the Guard of the Eastern Gate? Only God’s greatest soldiers were appointed to guard the Garden, it didn’t matter how high or low of a Choir they belonged to.

“Well, go on. Go fetch it.”

The hare hesitantly slunk away, stumbling to where his sword had fallen. His hands were shaking as he fumbled to pick up the heavy steel. His body felt cold and hot at the same time, and every hair on his body was standing straight up as if he'd been electrocuted with terror. Holding the weapon in both of his clammy hands, he locked a petrified gaze back onto his opponent, expecting another ruthless attack at any second.

“You must hold it more tightly,” the angel advised, clenching his free fist to demonstrate. The usual softness of his tone did not fool the demon. Despite his brilliant sense of hearing, Eric could barely hear him over the pulsing of his own veins. “If you lose your weapon, then often times you will lose your life. Try again.” The angel gestured for Eric to come at him.

Eric stood near the pillar, keeping a suitable distance between them. He briefly wondered where he could find the nearest means of escape, but with the walls of books surrounding them in a miniature colosseum, he no longer knew where he stood. He was too panicked to take the time to glance up and look at the compass above them, and if he would have been clear-of-mind enough to do so, he would have learned that Aziraphale was coincidentally blocking the pathway to the floorboard where the secret tunnel was buried.

“Come on, Eric. There’s no need to be afraid. I can’t harm you, remember?”

Eric gripped his hilt tightly and swallowed some of his panic. Aziraphale was right. The demon thought himself to be quite moronic for being such a coward. In the heat of the moment, he had nearly forgotten that he was protected by a Holy Vow.

As a wave of embarrassment washed over him, Eric’s glare hardened and his jaw set. The hare’s insecurities turned into anger, and the anger shifted from himself to Aziraphale. Aziraphale was the moronic one. Aziraphale was the one who was unprotected and who should have been afraid, not the other way around.

Eric stepped forward and willingly rejoined the ‘sparring’ match.

He delivered his own two-handed power strike, causing a great CLANG to echo through the shop as Aziraphale parried it with a grin. “Fantastic!”

Eric wanted nothing more than to smack that smile right off his glowing face. He struck again, and Aziraphale easily blocked the attack. CLANG.

“Harder,” the angel encouraged behind their crossed steel.

Eric hit harder. _CLANG!_

“Faster,” the angel’s eyes twinkled like a midnight pond reflecting a starry night sky.

Eric delivered two hits. CLANG, CLANG. 

“Swing like you _mean it,_ Eric,” the angel challenged.

Eric meant it. _CLANG!_

Aziraphale’s arm was knocked away by the force of the hit, and the angel chuckled as he brought his sword in front of him again, placing his second hand on the hilt. “Now you’re ready. Show me what you’ve got.”

Eric showed him. He rushed forth in a fearless assault, landing blow after blow against the angel’s steel in rapid succession, using every tool his teacher had given him against himself. The hare kept his elbows raised and strong. Their blades scraped against each other as they pushed to wrestle control, sending the sound of sharpening knives ringing through the air above them. Eric leapt away when he lost the upper hand, then spun on his heel to perform a double strike.

Eric’s anger did not subside, though Aziraphale’s challenging grin started to falter. Before long, he found himself too out of breath to deliver any more goading remarks or commending comments to the demon. Instead he concentrated on their battle-- and that was what it had turned into; a battle. It was no longer a fun, frivolous game of romanticised make-believe. This was the dark, gritty truth of swordplay, and Aziraphale finally found himself exclusively defending. There was no opportunity for him to do anything else.

Their footwork danced across the old rug, which became even more rough and ratted under their heels. Eric’s silk shirt grew damp with his sweat, causing it to cling to his muscles. His tufts of hair wriggled in the air as he twirled. Similarly, Aziraphale’s coat began to appear dizzy from all the spinning it was doing around his body. The chain of his gold pocket watch bounced against his stomach as his snow-blonde hair grew beads of dew.

Then, it happened.

Aziraphale’s sword-bearing arm was once again knocked aside by a particularly powerful hit, and before he could bring his weapon back to deflect another strike, Eric lunged forward with his free hand extended, breaking the rule of weapon-only contact and grabbing the angel’s wrist to hold it away. The point of the hare’s sword sped for the bookkeeper, but halted in the nick of time, scraping lightly against the threads of his bow tie.

They froze for a moment that seemed to last forever. Eric’s piercing eyes were locked onto the potentially-piercing tip of his blade, his weapon-wielding arm raised beside his head, elbow bent and poised to plunge. The heated grip of his other hand was clamped tightly around Aziraphale’s wrist, his claws itching to sprout out from his painted nails. 

He hadn’t drawn a single drop of blood, yet his vision was entirely bathed in a red haze. He couldn’t remember where he was, or how he’d placed himself into this position-- the position of being only inches away from slaying one of God’s angels. He could only imagine what praise he’d receive. What adoration he’d earn. What valor he’d be awarded. _How differently he’d be treated._ How he’d be revered and celebrated instead of kicked and bullied.

Eric stared hungrily at his own gleaming sword, then at the tartan bow tie ready to be skewered at the end of it. 

Then he remembered that this wasn't just any self-righteous, condescending, bastard of an angel. This was Aziraphale, and Eric did not want to hurt him, even if it meant giving up all of those dreams.

His burning gaze cooled, having been poured over ice. His grip released only enough to slide down the bookkeeper’s wrist and disarm the sword out of his grip. Aziraphale let him have it. Eric stepped back and lowered the weapons in each of his hands, both aimed downward. The hare regained his breath and blinked away his red haze.

Score for him. Their points were tied.

“...I’d like to be finished with this.”

Aziraphale’s genuine smile grew back as he relaxed. He nodded as he released the breath he'd been holding, and didn't bother to fix the crooked shape of his bow tie. Eric calmly offered both weapons back to the bookkeeper, who took them slowly. The swords shifted back into cylindrical wooden dowels in his gentle hold.

There was a deep pride in the angel’s voice as he earnestly congratulated, “Well done, Eric,” and extended an empty palm forward. Eric looked at it warily, then up at the angel it belonged to. As the demon hesitantly shook his hand, he failed to prevent a small smile from returning to his own face.

Eric had passed yet another lesson with flying colors.

* * *

_Click._

The vault creaked as it opened, revealing the bottle.

Eric hadn’t been the only demon staring at a tartan object that morning. Crowley stood in front of the opened painting for nearly an hour, unable to bring himself to reach in for the rubber gloves, let alone the tongs. He just stood there, staring with unblinking, glaring, yellow hot eyes until his house plants began to place bets on whether or not he’d become petrified.

Half of the plants lost their bet when the dull sound of an approaching person echoed from the exterior hallway and another quiet click echoed through the flat. Crowley snapped out of his trance and whirled around as his now-unlocked door opened to reveal a very excited and bubbly Aziraphale.

“I’ve got something to show you!” the angel declared, too giddy to bother closing the door behind him. He was hiding something behind his back. The bookkeeper rushed right to the demon’s cloaked television, snapping his fingers to miracle the black tarp across the room.

The vault and painting had been shut tightly before the angel had even stepped through the door, though Crowley still stood in the same spot; firmly in front of his amused Mona Lisa. “Well, don’t bother knocking,” he muttered, calling out his friend’s utter disregard for common courtesy.

Aziraphale didn’t hear him. The blonde buffoon stood in front of the flat screen telly as if he were rather lost about how to operate it, which he was. Crowley quickly spotted what was no longer hidden in his hands.

“A VHS? Really, angel?” Crowley stepped over and kindly took the tape from him, examining it carelessly. “What is this?”

Aziraphale was puckered with pride and very clearly pleased with himself as he folded his hands in front of himself. “Proof!”

Crowley glared suspiciously at him. “Proof of what?”

“You’ll see,” the bookkeeper removed one hand from the other to gesture at the screen. “Go ahead, pop it in.”

Crowley lifted one skeptical eyebrow and then knelt to pop the VHS tape into the DVD player. Somehow, the device accepted it, and the screen displayed the footage-- even though both pieces of technology were completely unplugged from each other _and_ any power source.

The frames of the footage were flickering and grey as if they had been shot on a very, very old camera. Still, they showed Eric and Aziraphale standing in the center of the bookshop.

“Now, forewarning,” Aziraphale lifted his hands, turning his expectant smile to the redhead. “You don’t need to have a fit. Clearly, everything is alright,” he gestured to himself, sweeping his hands down his coat.

Crowley didn’t like the sound of that warning. He met Aziraphale’s excited gaze and then watched the screen with a tension of dread strung throughout his body.

The footage fast-forwarded until the two subjects were clashing blades. Real blades.

Crowley snarled, “You--!?” 

“Just watch,” Aziraphale interrupted, holding up one finger and then pointing at the screen as if his favorite part was just about to come up. Crowley would miss the crucial details of it if he was too busy fretting.

Crowley seized with a sharp rigidity when Eric grabbed the angel’s arm and drove his sword forward. Of course, the hare stopped before he did any harm, but that appeared to be of little consolation to Crowley. The serpent grew very quiet, and remained very still, his eyes trained on the last frames of the footage as the two subjects parted and shook hands.

Aziraphale exchanged a series of merry, expectant looks from the television to the demon, appearing ridiculously happy about what he’d captured on his film. “You see?” he pointed at the telly again, his grin as wide and eager as a puppy dog’s. Perhaps Crowley hadn’t seen, so he began to explain joyfully, “He--”

“He could have killed you.” There was a simmering anger in the demon’s voice.

“Exactly!” Aziraphale lit up, glad that Crowley was grasping what was so obvious about the whole situation. “But he didn’t!” he emphasized, which was the whole point of his jolliness.

 _“Why_ did you do that?” Crowley hissed, staring at the last frozen frame of the film-- and the hare captured within it. “Why did you _provoke_ him? You are so _clever,_ Aziraphale, why did you do something so incredibly _stupid?”_

Aziraphale’s beaming smile weakened.

“To prove your little theory to me?” Crowley growled tightly, too miserable to put much bite into his words.

“Well, not _just_ that,” Aziraphale turned a contemplative gaze to the screen and twiddled his thumbs in front of his vest buttons. “I also did it to find certainty within myself,” he admitted.

 _“Oh,”_ Crowley’s face animated briefly, but only in mockery. “And did you find it?”

“I did,” the angel hummed warmly, still satisfied with himself even if Crowley did not share in his celebration. The bookkeeper hadn’t expected him to, anyway.

“You’re insane,” Crowley grit through clenched teeth, still refusing to look at his friend. “What kind of idiot tempts a _demon?”_

Aziraphale looked down at his hands. “This is not the first opportunity I have given him, Crowley.”

Crowley finally whirled to look at him, thoroughly angered. “You promised me you wouldn’t let your guard down.”

“I _didn’t,”_ Aziraphale bounced on his heels, giving Crowley a look with a tilt of his head. “I only _pretended_ to.” With tight lips, he rolled his gaze elsewhere and revealed with a poker face of indifference, “I feigned sleep on the couch with you the other day, when he visited early.”

 _“Wot?”_ Crowley bit the word.

“He quenched the fire and drew that blanket over us, that was all,” Aziraphale eased, patting his hands in front of him and glancing to the image of the hare within the frozen frame of the television.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley stepped in front of the television to force the angel to look upon how upset he was at hearing this news.

Aziraphale looked rather miserable and guilty, his poker face broken. “It was a trick, Crowley.” He pleaded for his friend’s astonishment to be soothed, “I wasn’t actually asleep.”

 _“This_ time!” Crowley bobbed his head in disbelief.

Aziraphale’s face molded into a wounded, doting expression as he stepped forward. “I wouldn’t have allowed anything bad to happen to you, even if he did decide to--”

“I know that! I’m not worried about that!” Crowley barked, elaborating with a wild gesture at himself, “I’m not worried about _me!”_ then a wild gesture at Aziraphale. _“_ I’m worried about _you!"_

 _"_ When you actually _do_ let your guard down around him, _that_ will be the time he strikes, angel!” The only thing that the redhead was convinced of was that these little tests and trials were going to give his dearest friend a false sense of security, and Eric was going to take advantage of that.

Crowley stepped in closer, swaying as he hissed, “You are playing with _fire,_ Aziraphale.” His tone was on the verge of sounding threatening, but only because he needed the man to understand the terrible risk he was taking. “You _will_ get burned.”

Aziraphale concentrated a stubborn expression upon the man’s lips and clavicle. “I say he’s done more than enough to prove that he does not wish to bring us harm, Crowley,” he murmured firmly. Turning his eyes up to Crowley’s, he whispered whole-heartedly, “I trust him.” 

Crowley’s glare shattered with pain. He felt a heavy burden settle upon his thin shoulders, now tasked with the arduous job of being the only sensible one of the pair.

“I hope that you can find a way to trust him as well,” Aziraphale blessed.

Crowley made a face and shook his head, unable to even respond to something so profoundly aggravating. His best friend had just admitted to gambling with the demon's most precious treasure; Aziraphale's own angelic life. Gambling was a fool’s game. Crowley would know. He invented it, back in the day of hiding nuts under sea shells and shuffling them around on a slab of stone. Now there was an entire city in America that had been erected to worship it.

Aziraphale changed topics, muttering and smiling about other unimportant things. An invitation to Eric’s flat for another dinner that night, and an offer to break out the board games. An update on the reorganization of his shop, a silly thing he saw on the bus ride, and the curious nature of his old Kodak camera.  
  
Crowley wasn't listening to any of it, only nodding generically and staring at a spot across the room. He had completely shut down and retreated into the dark, quiet cave of his own churning mind, too upset to even pretend to be anything better than miserable. Much to his appreciation, Aziraphale did not pressure him to come out of it, and was soon giving him affectionate words of reassurances and goodbyes, promising to see him later at Eric’s flat around whatever-o’clock. Crowley grunted like a deaf old man, still fixated upon the other end of the room.

He only realized that Aziraphale had left when the sun began to set.

That was when Crowley carefully removed the VHS tape out of the DVD player. With a hurl of his flaming arm and a roar of his dry lungs, he destroyed it against the concrete wall and stood watching its pieces burn.  
  
Mona Lisa's smirk begged for his attention even more powerfully than before. He knew that if he opened that vault again, he would not hesitate to don those rubber gloves. He left the flat before he could give in to her temptation.


	5. Chapter 5

Eric felt different after that lesson with Aziraphale. He couldn’t easily describe it, other than-- he felt _better_ now. He felt as if he’d unexpectedly been liberated from some oppressive thing that he’d been unaware of before. Whatever rope that previously snared him had snapped. He could breathe again. His eyes were more open, he walked with more confidence. He smiled at nothing at all and at everything all at once. He felt awakened and alive and _excited_ to be such things. Much more than before. Eric felt proud of himself. He felt happy. _Truly_ happy, for once. He felt he had changed.

Perhaps it was the lingering affects of his body’s adrenaline, though those affects should have worn off hours ago. Or perhaps the exhilaration of the sparring lesson had proven to be sort of cathartic for the hare. Whacking swords and sticks together had allowed him to unleash whatever he’d bottled up inside himself for thousands of years, resulting in the unknowing participation of some long-overdue therapy. Maybe that was why Aziraphale favored his silly little swords.

The doorbell rang. Speak of an angel…. 

Eric set down his cooking tongs and wiped his hands on his apron before moving over to open the door, revealing the beaming Principality. “Aziraphale!” The demon grinned at the sight of him, but glanced down to his apron and then back at the kitchen. “I apologize, I’m... dinner’s not quite ready yet.”

The bookkeeper pardoned him with a twinkling smile. “Oh, that’s alright. I’m a bit early.”

“Ah.” The demon nodded, his smile quickly fading quickly away. The hare gave him a look as he criticized, “Well. Maybe you could give us a heads up the next time you’re going to change your… visitation schedule.”

Aziraphale’s face turned cherry red. The reenactment of his own comment to the boy was spot-on. With a demurring smile, the angel tucked his chin and forced his guilt to hide behind an embarrassed chuckle. “My mistake,” he hummed along.

Eric’s scolding facade shattered with a laugh, “I’m just joking, come on in!” He pulled open the door and stepped aside, allowing the heartily humored bookkeeper into the flat.

The hare's blue and gold macaw shrieked in greeting, flapping relentlessly as she sailed over to the blonde’s raised arm. “Hello, Sky.” Aziraphale admired her colors and rubbed her chest. “Her feathers are nearly regrown. Just a few more weeks, I’d guess,” he mused, noting how healthy and happy she looked.

“I know!” Eric beamed, returning to the kitchen as another copy of himself clicked to call sky over to his arm. She turned around on Aziraphale’s sleeve to position herself for another flutter. “I’m going to take her up to a mountain with a flight group when she’s ready,” Eric declared, rewarding her with affection after she traversed the room to his arm.

Aziraphale’s smile turned sad, and he warned graciously, “You are aware of the risk that comes with that?”

“Yes. I think it’s worth it.” Eric kissed the bird’s head, and she purred noisily with a series of feminine blinks. “God meant for birds to fly, didn’t She?” Or else, why would She have given them wings?

Aziraphale lowered his gaze, yielding with a culpable sigh, “She did.” 

Eric seemed satisfied with that answer, cooing to the macaw as he took her in the other room to distract her from the smells of the kitchen, which is where the angel was soon lured over to. “Would you like some help?” the blonde asked, eagerly looking over the spread of preparations.

Chef Eric was cutting the fat away from some slabs of beef, but a few chicken breasts and fillets of fish also awaited nearby. A rather large, tightly-lidded pan sat on a dormant burner of the stove top beside him. A single ember of Hellfire brewed angrily within the sealed pan, continuing to burn in a suffocating space that no other fire would have the strength to survive in. 

Eric paused in his humble butchering work to smirk over at the angel. “How are you at slicing avocados?”

“I’ve never sliced an avocado before, actually,” Aziraphale merrily realized, removing his coat and draping it over a bar stool before rolling up his shirt sleeves and joining him at the counter. “But it can’t be that difficult.” He miracled an apron over himself as Eric nudged a cutting board and a bowl of avocados towards him. 

“They’ve got a great big pit in the center. You’ll need to halve each of them and remove it.” Eric showed him the procedure before handing him the avocado knife and returning to where his meat station was laid out, “Careful not to cut yourself. Though I don’t think I need to educate _you_ on how to use a blade.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks swelled. “No, you don’t, but thank you.” He began working at the dark fruit, though he continued to glance over at the rest of the ingredients excitedly. “What are we doing with them?”

“Grilling them,” Eric announced, placing the first few slabs of beef into a grill basket. He sandwiched the basket closed and gripped the handle. “Very carefully.” With a careful tilt of his other wrist, he opened the lid to the Hellfire pan and allowed the flame to roar with a rush of oxygen.

“How exciting!” Aziraphale had stopped cutting into his avocados, now hungrily staring over at the phenomenon.

The Hellfire quickly formed a small tornado within the opened pan, and Eric briefly stuck the basket into it. The scent of the unholy cooking was heavenly. The angel gravitated a step forward in fascination, hovering over Eric’s shoulder. The hare kept his elbow raised and strong, barricading the bookkeeper from venturing any closer.

In seconds, the basket was removed and the lid was replaced over the fire. The flames reluctantly died down and grumbled in their iron prison.

“Brilliant,” Aziraphale’s teeth shone as he stepped back, glancing to the hare coyly. “I don’t suppose you’d let me have a go at it?”

Eric chuckled nervously, but gently declined, “I think it’d be best if you stuck with your avocados.”

“Oh, come now, why’s that?” The angel teased with playful defensiveness, “You don’t think I’d do it right?”

“Maybe another time,” Eric tipped his head to give him a look and a patient smile. “When Crowley’s here. To supervise,” he added, though he didn't specify _who_ the serpent would be supervising. The last thing Eric wanted was for the redhead to walk in during the event of something as dangerous as that. “Where is Crowley, anyway?”

“Running late, I suppose,” Aziraphale murmured, returning to concentrate on his avocados.

Eric plated the meat and got to work on the rest of the dish, though he glanced over towards the door a few times. “Do you think something might have happened to him?”

“No, no. I think….” Aziraphale sighed. “I think he’s in a bit of a _mood,_ actually.”

“A mood?”

“Yes. A grumpy one,” the angel mumbled.

Eric looked over at him as he began cutting the scallions and chicken breasts, placing each into the charred grill basket. “Why’s that? Did you two have a fight again?”

Aziraphale reminded him of the proper terminology. “An argument.” 

“Right.” Eric hadn’t forgotten. The two of them would never have a fight.

The bookkeeper handed over some slices of avocados. “To be completely honest with you, yes. We did have a bit of an argument.”

Eric arranged them into the grill basket as well. “What was it about?” he asked hollowly. It was not difficult to predict that it was about himself. That was the subject of the majority of their latest arguments (that he’d overheard, at least.)

“I told him that I was teaching you how to handle a weapon.” Aziraphale answered, removing the pit of another green fruit. “He didn’t much like the sound of that.”

Eric didn't have to guess why that had upset the serpent. He closed the grill basket and repeated his earlier procedure of roasting the food trapped inside of it. Aziraphale paused in his work to watch him. The light of the flames reflected off his face, also warming it and bringing a smile back to it. The lid was replaced onto the pan, and Eric set the basket down to cool.

The angel returned to his avocados. “He’ll come out of it. He just has to process for a bit.”

“Process what?” Eric asked, lifting his arm to dab some sweat off his brow before continuing to prepare the plates.

Aziraphale did not answer immediately. He first fondly mused over the demon’s natural proclivity for asking so many questions. “I think he has to process the fact that it is okay for him to trust you.”

Now Eric paused in his work to watch the angel.

Aziraphale continued, “He’s afraid of you, and I think he believes that so long as he _stays_ afraid of you, he is safe.”

That sounded contradictory. Eric didn't understand it. At the risk of sounding too sentimental, he slowly offered, “...I told him that I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Luckily, Aziraphale did not take it too sentimentally. “That’s not the only thing he’s worried about.”

Eric stared at him, furrowing his brow. “It’s not?”

Aziraphale straightened his back and grabbed the last avocado, carving it with a meticulous serenity. As he sliced through its ripe skin, he glanced up at the hare, kindly informing him, “He’s afraid that you’ll hurt him, too.”

The demon did not believe the bookkeeper was making any sense. “No, he told me that he doesn’t care if I--”

“I don’t mean physically,” Aziraphale politely interrupted.

Eric gazed at him curiously, his mind churning.

“I mean emotionally.” The angel opened the avocado’s halves and set the empty one down on the cutting board before focusing on peaceably removing the pit from the other. “I think he’s worried that you’ll break his heart if he lets you into it.”

Eric had never considered that before. “Break his heart?”

The bookkeeper nodded. “It’s an incredibly risky thing, to open your heart to someone. It is very frightening. It very well could be the most frightening thing of all,” he hummed, placing the pit with the discarded others. “That kind of fear is often why people find it so difficult to allow themselves to love one another.”

The hare watched him closely as he began slicing the avocado halves on the cutting board. “Has he had his heart broken before?”

“Yes.”

Eric glanced up to the bookkeeper’s distracted face. Behind Aziraphale’s feigned indifference, he was sorrowful. “I do believe that _God_ was the first one to do it. The _only_ one, fortunately.” His short-lived smile was built with false humor. It was not structurally sound enough to shelter the hint of misery that came out of his following words. “But wounds that deep do not often heal.”

“Wounds?” Eric squinted. Crowley had no wounds. None that _he’d_ ever seen. They would have shown in the smooth scales of his reptile form-- which had always been scarless.

“Yes,” Aziraphale predicted his train of thought and finally looked over to him, passing a glance over the buttoned collar of his shirt. “Not all scars are visible on one’s surface.”

Eric’s gaze fell, and he turned back to the food, sluggishly arranging the plates.“...I didn’t know that Crowley had any,” he mumbled. 

Crowley had always seemed so _untouchable._ Unscathed. Undamaged. Immune to any kind of pain, physical or otherwise. Cool and confident and careless. Pristine and perfect and clean. Those were all very strange things for a demon to be. They were things that Eric had also been envious of, for all this time.

But then Eric recalled the time when he'd caught the redhead in the bedroom, having what he denied to be a panic attack. The hare stared at the counter top as Aziraphale continued, “Everyone does, I think.”

Of all shapes and sizes, from all manners of wounds.

The angel handed over the last of the sliced fruit, smiling falsely, “They just do a terrific job of hiding it.”

Eric distractedly placed the last of the ingredients into the grill basket.

Aziraphale watched him cook, but the Hellfire did not enchant him this time. “Because they believe they have to. In order to feel safe.”

* * *

Crowley felt very depressed, very empty, and maybe even a little betrayed. He couldn’t stop himself from feeling any of those things, even if deep down he knew they were ridiculous-- particularly that last one. Aziraphale had not betrayed him. Perhaps ‘let him down’ was more of an accurate phrase. Regardless, it wasn't a _good_ feeling when the person whom one looked up to _most_ had disappointed them. The angel’s judgment was rubbish, and his hopes had blinded him.

That video had come _this_ close to being a very _bad_ one. One that could be watched on the deep, dark World Wide Web where sadistic wankers enjoyed watching uncensored beheadings of their own species. If any demon had invented such a sickening digital place, it would have been Hastur himself-- but that wasn't the case. No, the humans had created that place all their own, and continued to populate it with a plenitude of terrible things.

If Hell had ever acquired a hold of that VHS tape, they’d alter it to their devilish liking and force the serpent to watch it in a torture chamber for the rest of eternity. It’d be far more agonizing than being forced to endure the Sound of Music. 

That had been only one of the reasons Crowley had destroyed it, but it may as well have been in vain. The demon was rightly afraid to fall asleep again in case a similar kind of video played in his brain without any help at all from a satanic intervention. His breath grew tight and hot and knotted in his throat just thinking about the threat of his own nightmares. He decided that he’d simply have to forgo sleeping for a few centuries.

Crowley didn't show up to Eric’s house that night. He was too upset to go anywhere except for a certain bar where he could sit in an undisturbed hibernation of miserable thought. The bartender left him alone and performed some of his own human miracles to keep an efficient conveyor belt of alcohol flowing in the redhead’s direction, silently racking up the man’s tab all the while.

The demon sat at the counter with a half emptied bottle of something expensive (not that he realized or cared) teetering in his hand. His head had fallen to rest in his folded arms long ago, though he still mumbled incoherently to himself. The latest thing he muttered was, “They prly din e’en no-ice I w’s gone,” which translated to _‘They probably didn’t even notice I was gone.’_

An approaching voice promptly disproved that. “There you are! We wondered where you were.”

Crowley found enough strength within his deflated lungs to bare his fangs and snarl to himself in the cave he’d made out of his folded arms. He coiled his limbs tighter around his head when he sensed Eric take a seat beside him at the bar counter.

“Go. Away,” Crowley growled from where he lay.

Eric did not go away. Instead, he asked, “Are you alright?”

 _“No,”_ Crowley hissed, lifting his head to flash his teeth at the hare. “Now _go away,”_

Eric was not deterred. He mimicked Crowley’s posture, folding his arms on the counter in front of him. “You can threaten me all you want, but you can't harm me.” He turned up his chin. “I’m not leaving until I know what exactly has made you so upset.”

The serpent seethed tiredly, _“You,_ Eric.”

Crowley saw him as nothing more than a demonic foe who had come within inches of stealing his dearest friend’s life. His voice dripped with loathing. _“You’ve_ made me upset.”

Eric’s courage fizzled, and he looked to the surface of the counter.

Crowley continued staring at him from behind the dark, soulless depths of his shades. While tilting his head, he sneered mockingly, “Y’ can _leave_ now.”

The hare still did not leave. He sat in silence while trying very hard to appear like the serpent’s caustic cruelty did not bother him. Eric was quite certain the redhead hated him, but he did not know exactly why. 

“How have I made you upset?” He drew his brown-eyed gaze back to the man’s soulless glasses, questioning quietly, “Did I do something I shouldn’t have?” With a sheepish half-smile, the hare elaborated, “Recently, I mean.” Eric’s feeble humor evaporated like a raindrop falling on hot summer tar.

Crowley’s subtle grimace did not relent. At least, not at first. Not because of the little joke Eric had tagged onto his question. But Crowley’s grimace did eventually release, because the answer was _no,_ Eric _hadn’t_ done anything wrong. In fact, he had done a very _good_ thing-- and had _been_ doing rather good things for the past couple of weeks, which was quite an impressive streak for even the best (worst?) of demons.

It suddenly occurred to the serpent that he should have been _grateful_ to the hare, not angry with him. In all fairness, he owed the hare _praise_ for what he’d done-- or more accurately, for what he _hadn’t_ done. For what he’d _resisted_ to do.

Feeling a bit of shame, Crowley’s grimace turned into a sour pout. He turned his attention to his bottle, shook his head, and reluctantly admitted, “No,” before taking a grand swig from it. Then he mumbled miserably, “No, you didn’t. You didn’t do anythin’ bad.”

The serpent realized he _wasn't_ mad at Eric. He only _wanted_ to be mad at Eric, but in reality, he was mad at _Aziraphale._ That was a painful thing to realize. It crumbled and crippled him. He couldn’t bear being mad at Aziraphale. 

“I-- I was wrong, it’s not you. It’s… I don’t know.” Crowley made a face and took another drink. His anger at Eric had dispersed into annoyance at himself.

The demon felt an overwhelming guilt as he also came to realize how much of a hypocrite he’d been. He despised hypocrites. Aziraphale may have been blinded by his hopes (Crowley still believed in that wholeheartedly) but the serpent himself had been blinded as well-- by his _lack_ of hope, and his insecurities.

There was a shift in the way the serpent brooded as he internally dealt with the real problem and worked on forgiving the angel for his little tricks. The latter wasn't all that difficult of a thing to do, and slowly, his distress ebbed away.

“Just in rotten mood,” he muttered, setting the empty bottle down and rolling it on its base.

Eric curiously watched him fiddle with the bottle. “Does drinking help?”

“Sometimes,” Crowley muttered distractedly. Then, he wobbled his head and corrected, “Not really.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“...Distraction,” he shrugged.

“Oh,” Eric’s face lit up, comparing, “Like reading.”

The redhead turned to give him a dull, questioning look.

“Reading’s a good distraction,” Eric nodded as if he were suggesting for the serpent to give it a try sometime.

Crowley sluggishly reciprocated his nod, reminded further of Aziraphale. He began to feel sorry, and weaseled out some kind of apology, “I didn’t go to dinner.”

“Yeah, but that’s alright,” Eric scoffed with a partial shrug, offering him some kind of acceptance. “Nothing went to waste.”

Crowley’s sour expression sweetened at the thought of his gloriously gluttonous angel. “I bet not.” He shifted on his folded arms and looked at Eric again, more kindly than before. “What’d you make this time?”

“A grilled dish.” Eric answered proudly, then childishly listed off every ingredient, “With chicken and fish and onions and scallions and avocados.”

Crowley grunted, looking ahead at the array of alcohol on the shelf in front of their counter. The bottles’ colorful reflections appeared to be painted across bar like an artist’s rendition of the northern lights. “I’m sure Aziraphale enjoyed that.”

“He did.” Eric gazed ahead at the colors as well.

“...Did you keep the fire away from him?” Crowley inquired.

“Well…”

Crowley looked over sharply.

“More like, I kept _him_ away from the _fire,”_ Eric answered with an uneasy laugh, thinking back on the recent memory. “He likes to watch.” The hare raised his eyebrows, fiddling with the purple nail polish that was gradually chipping away from his fingers. “Very closely. I have to admit, it makes me a bit uncomfortable.” 

Eric turned a suspicious look to the serpent. “He’s not a very careful angel, is he?”

“No. He’s not,” Crowley grumbled with a bitter expression, reminded of his anxieties and frustration with the angel’s recent antics. “He likes to play with things he shouldn’t,” he griped.

“Like demons,” Eric chuckled shyly.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed half-heartedly. “Like demons.” 

He couldn’t be upset at the angel for partaking in _that_ dangerous activity, though Crowley did possess a biased opinion on the matter. Honestly, who was he to tell Aziraphale which demons he could and couldn’t interact with? That was something an other angel would do, and Crowley certainly didn’t want to treat Aziraphale the way other angels did. However, they treated him that way to control him, not because they had his safety in mind.

The serpent remained conflicted. Sighing, he lifted one hand to his rub his head and lamented, “He’s gonna get in himself in trouble one day. The bastard.”

Eric noticed the fondness hidden in the redhead’s tone and quirked a lopsided smile. “I guess we’ll just have to keep an extra close eye on him,” he supposed optimistically.

Crowley turned another gentle look at the hare, who spoke as if they were on a _team_ together. All three of them. The serpent neither agreed with nor corrected him, only asking, “Is he still with you?”

Eric’s smile brightened as if Aziraphale's light was shining through his face. “Yeah. He’s very relieved to hear that you’re alright.” The hare cocked his head, admitting pleasantly, “He’s sad to know you're at a bar, though. He says you only go to bars by yourself when you're feeling gutted.” 

Crowley made a face, unable to argue. He tried to argue anyway and focused back on his bottle, which was looking far too empty. “I’m fine. Just needed some time,” he muttered. “Alone. To mull over things.”

Eric nestled in on his own folded arms, smirking flirtatiously. “Aziraphale says you mean ‘to _brood_ over things.’”

Crowley couldn't prevent a smirk from flashing across one side of his face. Eric really was with the bookkeeper, wasn't he? The redhead recovered by snapping a demand at the hare, “Are you telling him everything I say?”

“Not _everything,”_ Eric defended before asking, “Do you want me to?”

“No,” Crowley grumbled, lifting his bottle to his lips and adding with a firm nod to the other demon, “But you _can_ tell him that he’s a rotten scoundrel of a man.”

Eric grinned with delight, but decided, “You know, I think I’ll leave that one for _you_ to tell him.”

“Very well.” Crowley drained the last of what was in his bottle.

Eric quickly added, “But Aziraphale _is_ wondering if you still want to play games at the bookshop tonight,” and partnered it with a hopeful wince.

Crowley thought about that, finally mumbling dejectedly, “....I don’ know. Prolly not.” He waved his painted fingers lazily. “You two can have at it.”

Eric shifted in his seat and carefully conveyed, “Aziraphale says the games require three players, and we can’t play if you’re not going to be there.”

“That’s not true. I know what games he has. He’s just saying that,” Crowley shook his head.

Eric made his best personal translation, “Well, what he _means_ is-- he doesn’t _want_ to play if you’re not going to be there.” He fiddled with his fingernails again while murmuring, “And I don’t either.”

He knew he wasn't going to change Crowley’s mind, and he didn’t try to, instead offering happily, “But we can all play another night! When you’re feeling better.”

The serpent hesitated, staring at his empty bottle. Finally, he drawled, as if it were a great inconvenience to him, “...No, we can play tonight. I’ll get my arse up.” He turned and stepped down from his stool, holding onto the counter for balance as the world spun.

Eric eyed him. “Now, are _you_ just saying that? You know you really don’t have to.”

“No, I know. I want to,” the redhead muttered, beckoning the bartender over. He’d forgotten his name. Wiggleton? Williamsworth? Something like that. “I'm... feeling a bit better. I guess.” Crowley miracled up his card to pay off the tab as What’s-His-Face Willyborough made his way over to them.

“That’s good to hear.” Eric smiled, glanced to Crowley’s card, then extended his own arm forward as the human stopped in front of them. “I got it.” What he handed to the bartender was his own card-- and not the same one that Aziraphale had given him. It was his _own,_ own, from the account that he had set up himself which held the real human money he himself had earned.

The bartender took Eric’s card and swiped it through his machine. Crowley was too stunned to feel anything beyond mild confusion, which gradually turned into mild annoyance.

“You fellas take care, now.” Mr. Willyborough returned Eric’s card to him and gave the boy a glance, warning, “Your friend here certainly had a lot to drink.”

“We’re _not_ friends,” Crowley snapped with a hint of a growl shredding the edges of his words.

The bartender gave them both a puzzled look (unsure if the redhead was serious, or simply delusionally drunk) then left them to attend to other patrons. They may not have been friends, according to the serpent, but the bartender _was_ right about one thing. “Are you okay to drive?” Eric asked, standing as Crowley stormed off with crooked steps. “Would you like me to dri--?”

“Don’t even suggest it,” Crowley interrupted, teetering to a halt to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his fists. The alcohol evaporated from his corporation with a grimace and a shake of his head. _“Ugh.”_ The world ceased its dizzy dance, and he was left with a foul taste of fermentation in his mouth. He walked much straighter after that.

Eric followed him outside, but hung back as Crowley strode right to the Bentley. “Alright. We’ll meet you there,” the hare called. The excitement in his voice was rather weak. He pocketed his hands as he turned to head to the bus stop.

The serpent paused after opening the Bentley’s driver door. Tossing a bewildered look at Eric’s retreating form, he barked, “Are you driving _him? Now?"_

Eric glanced back to confirm with a renewed smile, “Yeah!”

“Oh, _God.”_ Crowley cursed, rolling his head and wrestling with his inner panic. He hissed a firm order at the hare, “Go _slow.”_

“I am,” Eric called with a gentle, reassuring earnest.

Crowley hung on the open door of his vehicle, emphasizing, “I mean, _really_ slow, he despises riding in automobiles.”

“Not mine,” Eric shrugged, walking backwards with his hands still in his pockets. He grinned playfully as he called with a lift of his head, “In fact, he says I’m a _far_ better driver than you.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped. “No he did _not!”_

“He did!” Eric called, turning to strut triumphantly toward the bus stop.

As Crowley folded himself into the Bentley, he roared back, “You’re making that up!”

As the Bently’s engine purred to life and its tires squealed on the cobblestone road, Eric chuckled, “Am not!”

Crowley stuck his head out the window as he passed the other demon, securing the last word, _“Are too!”_ before speeding to the bookshop.

* * *

The sparkling purple Bugatti was parked down the street from the bookshop. As Crowley drove past it, he craned his head to peer into its empty cabin as if he could glean some kind of information from it. Upon entering the shop, he was glad to see that the angel had made it home in one piece.

“Hello, Crowley!” the angel greeted him with a glowing smile, in the process of pulling down the board games from the top of a shelf. Eric was stabilizing the ladder for him, but he resisted the urge to take his hands off it to wave at the redhead, knowing better. The hare smiled instead. Crowley glared at him briefly, then ignored him while marching forward.

Looking up at the descending angel, he demanded, “Did you really say he’s a better driver than me?”

Aziraphale glanced at the serpent between ensuring he was stepping down the ladder properly, the board games tucked against his chest, “I… well, he’s….” He met the ground and nodded his gratitude to Eric before figuring out how to answer the redhead without upsetting him. Eric began putting the ladder away. 

“For a demon with no miracles, he _is_ a very, very good driver,” the angel chuckled. The serpent tilted his head with a disgusted look, but exhaled his disappointment and vowed to win back the angel’s preference and drive even _better_ from now on when the blonde shared the Bentley with him.

The angel's gaze changed to an incredibly fond one as he marveled, "You did a remarkable job teaching him, Crowley." He glanced at the demon's arm as if he was debating whether or not to reach out and touch it. "I am... very proud of you." Aziraphale didn't reach out, instead simply holding onto the stack of board games. But he did replace his endearing blue gaze upon the demon's glasses. Crowley's mind floated in the peace that they brought him.

“What games are we playing?” Eric asked, returning to their side-- and hovering closer to Aziraphale’s than Crowley’s. 

The angel pardoned the hare’s interruption and held up one elongated box. “This one, for starters.”

The title read ‘Risk.’

“You said you wanted to take over the world.” Aziraphale beamed with clever delight. “Now you can!”

Eric appeared unfathomably excited.


	6. Chapter 6

Stuck in a state of pessimistic sobriety, Crowley had expected the night to go as follows; with Eric and Aziraphale sharing smiles, cracking jokes, and acting completely buddy-buddy with each other while he was left to watch them in a forlorn, jealous, abandoned silence.

But the night did not go like that. Not at all.

Instead, Aziraphale performed the righteous work of making sure he gave enough of his attention to Crowley throughout the night. He sat closer beside Crowley than beside Eric. He was more physically invested in the serpent, aiding Crowley in setting up his playing pieces and handing him whatever he needed from the box while giving Eric necessary verbal instruction. Their hands brushed against each other as the angel delivered Crowley his little soldier pieces-- which were red, his usual favored color. Aziraphale gave him clandestine encouragements and offered simple questions that were easily answered ‘yes’ or ‘no’ by the brooding demon.

For instance, the bookkeeper pointed, “Where would you like those units? Here?”   
  
Crowley’s arms were no longer folded across his chest. Now, he held a few tiny soldiers in his fingers. “Sure.” He gave them back to the angel, and their hands brushed against each other once again.   
  
Aziraphale politely leaned across him to position each piece on the map one soldier at a time. He was in no hurry to be done with it. “That’s a good spot. You’ll be able to defend this channel rather well with them there.”   
  
Crowley stared distantly at the board, though the topic of the game was far from his mind. His noggin was still whirling with anxious thoughts, but the cogs were gradually slowing down. After taking a deep breath to subtly draw in the angel’s scent, he tried to relax. The bookkeeper’s seemingly insignificant and unnoticeable deeds of affection greatly helped ameliorate the redhead’s mood.

Eric was placing his own black units, concentrating on developing his strategy and studying every inch of the map. While he wasn't at all perturbed by Crowley’s presence the same way Crowley was perturbed by his, it was clear that Eric was somewhat shut-down as well-- only because he wished to avoid doing or saying anything that would upset the serpent further.

Crowley ignored Eric for most of the first half hour, and in respect, Eric also ignored him-- though much less harshly. Aziraphale continued to divide his attention justly between the two Hellions, but he didn’t pressure either one to acknowledge the other. He didn’t set up any conversations or force a bridge to be built over any gaps. The angel led the game in a calm and neutral manner, upholding a very safe and comfortable environment in the room.

After six thousand years of knowing one specific demon, Aziraphale had come to learn that Hellspawn were easily threatened and impressively territorial. Possessive by nature, he supposed. But they (meaning the one specific demon, at the very least) were also soft-- deep down underneath their hard shells. 

The bookkeeper knew that their glorified and involuntary adoption of another satanic family member had been difficult for Crowley in many ways. He also knew that some of the things he had done lately hadn’t made the transition any easier for the redhead. So that night, the angel tried to comfort his friend as covertly and thoroughly as possible. 

Perhaps it was his way of apologizing. For everything.

* * *

The time ticked away as they sat on the rug in the center of the shop, cushioned by a cluster of pillows and surrounded by dusty books and warm lighting. 

“Crowley, you can attack me here,” the angel gestured to the map.

“No, I can’t,” Crowley grumbled.

“Yes, you can,” Aziraphale encouraged.

“We’re on a team,” the redhead muttered petulantly.

“Not in this game, dear,” Aziraphale explained sweetly. “We’re all on our own teams."

“Eric’s  _ winning,”  _ Crowley grimaced, gesturing to the sea of black soldiers on the map. “He took nearly all of our territories already. Our only hope is to team up.” (And save the ‘world,’ once again.)

Eric sat proudly and awaited his next turn, which he had perfectly planned out. In fact, he’d planned out his next three turns, in five different scenarios.

Aziraphale corrected the serpent, “No, he took  _ one _ of your territories, and…” He recounted.  _ “Nine  _ of... mine.” That was nearly all, wasn't it?  Crowley gave the angel a glare, convinced that his point had been proven.  Aziraphale slowly returned his look, equipping a feeble excuse, “I  _ let _ him have them.”

“You  _ let _ him have them?” Crowley challenged, “Why?”

“It’s his first time,” Aziraphale muttered, holding fast to his excuse of ‘going easy’ on the rookie.

“And he’s going to  _ win  _ if we don’t  _ team up!” _ Crowley whined, pointing a hand to the board.

Eric wriggled joyfully, announcing, “Sure am!”

The hare did win that game. But he was  _ so _ happy that he took over the entire world, he wanted to do it  _ again. _

“Alright,” Aziraphale quickly reset the map and divvied up the starting amounts of soldiers. They had decided to move over to a table now, as things were getting far less casual, and far more hard-core. “This time,” the blonde warned with a smile as he pulled up a chair, “I won’t go so easy on you.”

Not fifteen minutes later, he and Crowley stared dumbstruck at the board.

“He’s going to win again,” the serpent mumbled hopelessly.

Aziraphale’s brow was set in stone, carved by determination. “Not if we can stop him,” he growled before nodding over to the left side of the map. “You flank him there, and I’ll go around.”

Eric grinned. “Oh, so  _ now _ you’re going to team up against me?”   
  
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Aziraphale smiled at the hare with a stern playfulness. He ordered excitedly, _ “Go get ‘im,  _ Crowley.” 

The serpent was all too eager to oblige, and he declared an attack upon China.

But their efforts were in vain, and their confidence quickly unraveled. Soon, they were tenderly bickering like a married couple again.

“Crowley, why didn’t you put your troops _ there? _ ” the angel lamented. “He’s going to take over all of Europe!”

Crowley’s expression was fraught with the concentration of battle. “Better Europe than Asia. He gets extra points if he gets this one. I’m thinking ahead, angel. You focus on defending America.”

Aziraphale did his best, but alas...

“America’s lost,” he whined a few minutes later, his shoulders sagging in heavy mourning.

“Dammit,” Crowley whispered.

The angel sighed and slumped in his chair while tossing one hand in the air, “I have three armies left.”

Crowley peered at the board as he ordered, “Don’t give up, angel.”

Aziraphale appeared as if he’d actually fought in another War-- and lost. “It’s over dear, he won.”

“Not yet I haven’t,” Eric chirped, casting a tyrannical gaze over his troops. “I’ve got to take over  _ everything.” _

“Not the rebel forces of _ Australia!”  _ Crowley declared with fiery passion, placing his allotted reinforcements on the untamed outback.

Aziraphale threw a helpless gesture to Eric, then a helpless gesture to Crowley.  _ “You’re _ determined to achieve  _ total _ world domination, and  _ Crowley’s _ determined to hold on to the last threads of life. We’re going to be here all night,” he identified before giving up with an over-dramatic toss of his cards upon the table. “I fold!”

“It’s not three-card brag, angel. There’s no folding.” Crowley’s focus remained pinned to the game as Eric declared an attack. They began rolling dice as intensely if the fate of the Earth rested in their hands.

“Well, I surrender then,” Aziraphale watched them tiredly.   
  
Crowley snarled to himself as Eric won the fight by earning higher numbers. The serpent was beginning to contemplate cheating, though he was embarrassed by the  _ need _ to. 

The hare snickered as he overtook Crowley’s territory, “You can’t surrender.” Then he teased cruelly, “Only perish!”

Aziraphale pleaded with a slow blink and a roll of his head, “Please, Eric, I don’t  _ want _ to perish.” He turned up a pair of pouting, puppy dog eyes as the lesser demon surveyed the last of the blue pieces on the board--his next victims. Gesturing to his measly troops, Aziraphale testified, “This is a very sorry army I’ve got here. They’re completely exhausted. And hungry, and cold. And probably even  _ more _ traumatized. Will you show them just a  _ bit _ of mercy?”

Eric pursed his lips, contemplating the angel’s appeals as he scoured the landscape of South America. He held the tension of his decision for as long as it entertained him, and then turned up his nose. “Fine,” he granted. “I will give you one turn to ship them all to Australia to seek refuge.” It was clear he considered himself very merciful and diplomatic indeed.

Aziraphale grinned and collected his soldiers, carrying them across the ocean. “Here, Crowley. Do you accept these poor hungry immigrants?”

Crowley eyed the angel’s small handful of pieces. “Only if they join the Resistance.” He was already in the process of physically receiving them, his fingertips caressing the bookkeeper’s knuckles. 

The angel’s touch returned as he switched out the white troops for an equal amount of fresh red ones. “Oh, then here. They’ll need new banners.”

Crowley began meticulously arranging the reinforcements along his front lines. Eric resisted the urge to point out that Aziraphale’s entire plea for the sparing of his army was based upon their inability to continue fighting, but he merely smirked and kept his mouth shut.

Aziraphale departed to brew some tea for the three of them while the demons continued their battle. Somehow, by the time the grandfather clock struck midnight, Crowley had taken back nearly a third of the map. Aziraphale sat back and watched, trying to calculate how that had mathematically happened. He figured that Crowley must have been cheating during his dice rolls, but Aziraphale didn’t rat the redhead out.

Instead, he sighed, “Dears, can we  _ please _ move on to another game? I think the world deserves a rest from this Hellish tug of war.”

Crowley appeared torn, but did not answer, leaving it up to Eric to decide between conceding or continuing to torment the bored angel. Eric thought about his options, recognizing the situation the serpent had placed him in. “Hm....” He stuck out a hand across the map to Crowley. “How ‘bout a truce?”

The redhead grimaced at the hare’s hand for a few moments before glancing down to his board and then finally agreeing to the compromise, “To be continued,” he grumbled, briefly holding Eric’s fingers like he was a lady before letting them go, refusing to execute an actual handshake with the brat. 

Eric seemed satisfied either way, and quickly helped put away the game. “What’s next, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked rather content as he sipped his tea. “I think it’s Crowley’s turn to decide next.” he mused affectionately.

Crowley appeared much more at ease now that the fate of the world had been put to rest. He stretched and cracked his back to further release the tension in his corporation, glancing over to the pile of board games. “Mmmmmmmm… Monopoly,” he picked.

“That’s not one of the options,” Aziraphale informed him kindly. It certainly wasn't among the pile of games, but Crowley stood up and walked past them-- back to the self where they originated. As he began to slither to the top, he hissed back, “Sssssure it is.”

Aziraphale sighed and closed his eyes.

Monopoly was one of those rare, demonic, forbidden games-- like a worse cousin of the Ouija board. It brought nothing but devastation upon families, even the Royal Family, who had made an official decree that no Member shall ever play it with one another again.

Monopoly was the ill-chosen game to be played as a team-building exercise during one of the meetings of the League of Nations. Perhaps if they had played a round of paintball instead, one particular German wouldn’t have walked away from the board game quite so upset, and the entire Second World War could have been avoided.

Crowley’s voice sounded from atop the shelf. “Come here, Eric.” 

The hare obeyed, wandering over to the shelf. “Catch,” Crowley asked, using his reptilian nose to nudge the game over the edge. Eric caught it and looked at the cover while the snake slithered back down. “Oh, this is the game with the paper money!” Eric chirped.

At least they were no longer ignoring each other. “Crowley, I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Aziraphale rubbed his head as the demons returned to the table and began setting it up.

“Nonsense! It’s a great idea!” Crowley declared. He resisted the temptation to add,  _ ‘almost as great as  _ your _ idea with the bloomin’ swords.’  _ There was no reason to start anything nasty before the game had even begun.

* * *

As was expected in a game as sinful as this, the three of them were soon bribing, making deals, and scheming with one another.

“I’ll pay you back,” Aziraphale promised stoically. “With interest.”

“Oh you will? How much interest?” Crowley pursed his lips as he thoughtfully rubbed a hand over his chin, appearing indifferent as he decided whether or not to give the angel the trio of properties that included The Angel, Islington. They were the Principality’s favorite trio of cards, if only because they were colored light blue. They were quite honestly some of the most rubbish cards in the game, strategically speaking, in the demon’s humble opinion. 

Eric’s eyes cautiously darted between them as they negotiated.

“Ten percent.”

“Fifteen.”

The angel huffed, “Fine.” He glowered over at the serpent. “Do we have a deal?”

Crowley removed his hand from his chin and snapped a scroll into existence, handing it to the angel after the burnt edges of the parchment had cooled. “Sign here.”

Aziraphale appeared stung. “A  _ contract? _ Don’t you trust me?”

Crowley shook his head. “This isn’t the real world, Aziraphale. This is the world of  _ Monopoly. _ ” He turned to mutter an educational aside to Eric, “First rule of Monopoly; trust  _ no one.” _

Eric took note with a solemn nod. This was some serious shit.

Aziraphale pouted and produced a long white peacock feather pen to sign the ethereal contract with.

The contract read, in cursive calligraphy that was so fancy it was illegible to a human eye,  _ ‘I, A.Z. Fell, aka Aziraphale (winged, haloed symbol) of the Third Choir of Heaven, hereby vow to uphold my obligation to pay Anthony J. Crowley, aka Crawly (squiggly serpentine symbol) the full amount of three-hundred Monopoly pounds plus fifteen percent interest before the night is done.’ _

The contract and pen left the Earthly realm in a could of black and white smoke, respectively. Aziraphale sighed, ashamed that he had just signed a demonic contract for the first time in his life. He  _ knew _ this game had been a bad idea.

Eric couldn’t hold it in any longer. He’d never seen an angel so easily sign a satanic contract over something as stupid as a game the humans had invented. And for such a temporary time. The end of the night would arrive in only a few hours. The hare finally released a snort, then burst into a bout of uncontrollable laughter. Crowley held back a triumphant grin.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale grumbled, glaring at the hare. The blonde struggled to maintain a firm pout, wishing to smile and laugh as well. “It’s your turn,” he shook his head with a smile.

Eric took his turn between wiping some tears away from his eyes and catching his breath. His playing piece landed on the last available green property. Crowley had the other two. This one was Bond Street, which was the street where they’d bought his clothes when they’d gone shopping.

Eric looked up at the redhead. “Do you want this one?” he asked, then offered to make a trade, “I can get it for you.”

Of course, Crowley did want the property to complete his collection, but he did not directly admit it. “I’ll buy it from you.” He began fetching bills. “Four hundred?”

“Two.” Eric held the card out for him to take.

Crowley stopped counting his fake bills. “Two? But you just paid three for it. You can’t go lower than that. You’ll lose money.” That was the opposite of what the hare was supposed to be aiming for. He was supposed to be looking to make some sort of profit in his deal. That was simply how the game was played.

“You do remember I work at an actual bank, don’t you?” Eric smiled coyly. “I’m not stupid. I only want two hundred. Now take it, before I give it to you for free.”

His threat was enough to do the job. Crowley took the card and gave over two hundred pounds with a stunned look hidden behind his glasses. Eric himself might not have been stupid, but Crowley still thought that what he’d done had been quite a stupid thing-- if only because it was so uneccessarily kind. Like paying for his drinks at the bar. And a few other things that came to mind. The serpent gazed distractedly at his new Bond Street while Aziraphale took a turn.

* * *

Aziraphale did pay Crowley back (with interest) before the night was done, but the game continued into the early hours of the morning. The angel baked some scones between turns, returning to the table with a heaping plate of treats for all three of them to share. As usual, Crowley wasn’t all that interested in the food, but Eric enjoyed partaking in it.

“How much would you be willing to sell that one for?” the hare asked, holding a scone in one hand and pointing lazily over to one of Aziraphale’s dark blue properties with the other. It was Mayfair. Eric already had Park Lane, its counterpart.

The bookkeeper lifted his head and drew his crystalline eyes over to the lesser demon, calmly informing him with an air of a challenge in his soft tone, “It’s not for sale.” 

Eric grinned, accepting the challenge. “But if it were?”

Aziraphale shook his head, his low voice sounding warm and cozy, “I can play this game for all of eternity, Eric.” He did not speak of the game of Monopoly (though that game often felt like it lasted an eternity.) He spoke of the game he himself had invented. The game of refusing to sell one of his precious artifacts to a stubborn patron and doing whatever was necessary to retain possession of it. “You are not buying that card from me.”

“Wanna bet?” Eric purred with a gleam in his dark eyes.

A wide smile spread across Crowley’s face as he watched them face off against each other. While he would always take the side of his angel, he knew that Eric had a secret weapon, and Aziraphale had one very obvious weakness.

“No price is worth that property,” Aziraphale reiterated, advising the hare to move on with a nod, “Take your turn.”

“Is that so?” Eric slowly transferred his gaze over to the scone in his hand. He rotated it and admired it like it was a golden apple. “Not even…” Eric gave a single model-worthy blink of his luscious lashes as he looked back at Aziraphale. “A Hellfire-toasted scone?”

A brief puff of Hellfire plumed up from his fingertips, vanishing within a second. An irresistible scent wafted up from the delicately-cooked scone into the air of the bookshop. Aziraphale’s calm expression fell as Crowley’s smile lifted. The serpent failed to contain his sadistic delight, watching their interaction while on the edge of his seat. “Oh, he’s got you now.”

Aziraphale’s stalwart defenses no longer appear so stalwart. He stared at the pastry, but raised his chin higher, demanding, “Two scones.”

“Ooh, greedy angel,” Eric snickered, exchanging grins with Crowley. But he did not budge on his offered price, finalizing firmly,  _ “One.” _

Aziraphale held fast to his counter offer. “Two.” 

Eric shrugged. “Fine, no deal,” he hummed before opening his jaw, about to take a bite of the special treat right in front of the bookkeeper.

Aziraphale panicked. “Alright, one!”

Eric drew his fangs away from the toasted scone and laughed as Aziraphale fumbled with Mayfair. “One scone. Here, have it. It’s a rubbish property anyway.” The angel appeared very upset as he held out the card.  Eric handed him the roasted treat and took Mayfair in exchange.

Crowley scoffed merrily, having difficulty holding back his own laughter, “Aziraphale, it’s the best property in the game. You’re going to give it up for a bloody  _ scone?” _

The angel cupped his prized pastry in both hands as if it were a precious crown jewel. “Don’t judge me, Crowley,” he mumbled between savory mouthfuls, “Focus on your little… hotels.”

“I’d be more than happy to make that trade  _ again,” _ Eric tempted the angel with a seductive grin. “For your other properties. One for one?”

Aziraphale glanced down to his collection of cards while he munched, calculating how many scones he could get out of a repeated trade.

_ “Aziraphale…” _ Crowley warned, trying to be the angel’s voice of reason.

The angel picked up another one of his properties to hand to Eric. “They’re just cards, Crowley.” Monopoly may have been a destructive force to be reckoned with, but it was nowhere near as powerful as good _food._

* * *

When Aziraphale ran out of properties to trade with Eric, he began purchasing Hellfire-toasted scones with his own colorful paper bills. Needless to say, the angel was quickly out of the game.

Once again, Crowley and Eric were at odds, caught in an ageless tug of war. But this time, Crowley was the one to suggest a peaceful means to an end. “Siz up for it, ey?” He held his hands over the board, and Eric did the same. “Three rounds, winner takes all.”   
  
In unison, they competed in a short trial of ‘Siz, pap, brick,’ (or, ‘Rock, paper, scissors’ in American terms.)

“Aha! Gotcha!” Crowley leapt to his feet when he won-- while the losing Eric cried out, “No!” with heavy laughter.

Aziraphale watched them happily. The sight in front of him gave him more pleasure and warmth than any number of Hellfire-toasted scones. He was quite certain that they’d just had the most enjoyable, beneficial, and constructive game of Monopoly on the face of the Earth, and that was quite an accomplishment.

Despite his loss, Eric was smiling while he stared up at Crowley. The serpent pointed excitedly in his face, “Better luck next time, bunny boy!” Crowley was too caught up in the rush of winning to realize how not-depressed and not-ignoring-Eric he was. Even his dark glasses glinted with light. “Go on, it’s your turn to pick a game! Hurry, now!” the redhead shoo-ed Eric away with an exuberant eagerness to get the next activity started. Eric scurried over to the pile as if there was a time limit on Crowley’s pleasant demeanor.   
  
Unfortunately, there was.

Grinning, Crowley turned to glance at Aziraphale. The serpent’s expression faded when he read the nature of Aziraphale’s endearing, knowing smile. It was at that moment that the redhead realized the extent of his own happiness, and remembered that he should not allow himself to feel so carelessly jovial around Eric. “...What are you smilin’ at?”

Aziraphale tried to conceal his doting expression, but it was too late. “Nothing, dear,” he focused on the tea in his hands. “Just… thinking about those scones. My, they were exquisite,” he chuckled weakly. It was no use. Crowley had snapped out of his pink haze. 

The redhead gave the blonde a brief sneer, then plopped back down in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t go getting any  _ silly _ ideas, angel.”

Aziraphale felt rather guilty as he watched Crowley sink back into the dark depths of his guarded mind. Even from across the way, Eric had sensed the change in the serpent as well. Rather, he’d heard it. He looked up from the pile of board games to witness Crowley recede into his mental cave of distrust and misery once again.

“We’re  _ not _ friends,” the serpent mumbled quietly to Aziraphale-- not intending for Eric to hear, though Eric heard him anyway.

Eric looked down at the selection of board games. They each suddenly felt hollow and pointless in his hands.  After a few moments, Eric furrowed his brow and looked up again. His curious expression blossomed into one of pure, overwhelming hope. By the end of the transformation, he looked so excited, one would fear he’d taken over  _ ten _ worlds. 

“I’ve got it!” he shouted.

The angel and the other demon glanced over at his euphoric enthusiasm. “Got wot?” Crowley asked, looking at the game in the hare’s hands. He began to criticize his choice, “Ticket to Ride? Really? Out of all the bloody games over there, that’s the one you--”

“No, not a game!” Eric set the box down and hurried over to the table empty-handed. He clapped his hands upon its surface like he was pitching a riveting invention to a couple of board members. “Our race! If I win, I know what I want!”

“Race?” Aziraphale looked to Crowley for an explanation. 

“Yes, we’re having a race, apparently,” the redhead muttered before addressing Eric with a sneer, “Well, what is it? What do you want?”

Eric slid his hands off the table and stood up straight, biting his lip as he bounced on his heels. “It’s a secret. You’ll have to find out when I win,” he tantalized.

Crowley’s arms remained crossed over his chest as he snapped, “That’s not--!”

Eric boldly cut him off with a point of his finger.  _ “You _ said we could race when I know what I want, and now I know what I want. You never said I’d have to tell you what it was.” Eric’s finger waved back and forth, and he twisted his torso before giving a final nod. 

Crowley couldn’t argue with that. His lips lifted over his teeth as he growled to himself, having just been out-demoned. Eric was already putting on his coat, eager to go out and get started.

Aziraphale, who was still confused, bore Crowley a deep look, wondering if this was all alright. Crowley didn’t look at him, because this  _ was _ all alright. Nothing more than a friendly competition that he’d somehow been roped into during another previous moment of foolish fun-- another unnecessary bonding activity that he was not obligated to indulge in, but yet found himself unable to resist anyway. He was sick of it.   
  
He had to put an end to this. After this damned race, he’d never let anybody believe that he was at all ‘chums’ with the hare. This was the last thing he’d do with the bunny boy, and he wouldn’t do anything else with him  _ ever _ again.

“Right then. Let’s get this over with.” With a bite to his words, Crowley stood up and went to fetch his coat too.

Aziraphale watched them leave, unable to ignore an uneasy feeling that stirred in his gut. "...Be safe," he called after them awkwardly.  
  
Eric's teasing shout of "No promises!" was paired with a dull, "This won't take long, angel," that was mumbled by Crowley before he shut the door.

The bookkeeper stared at the door long after the sounds of the demons' vehicles faded away into the distance.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley strode straight to where the Bentley waited on the curb. Eric was on his way towards the purple Bugatti that was parked down the street, but he took a detour to circle the serpent’s vehicle. There was a criticizing grin strung across his face. “You’re really going to drive that old thing in our race?”

“Watch it, lagomorph,” Crowley applied a slow bite to the consonants of his warning. He opened the driver’s side door, but was interrupted before he even lifted a foot into the cab.

“She’ll fall apart as soon as she hits one-forty.”

Crowley turned to give Eric a look. Then, he tilted his head and informed him, “I’ve taken her to five-hundred before.”

Eric’s smile vanished. In fact, he looked rather afraid. Afraid that he was going to lose their race. “Five-hundred?”

The redhead smirked, folding his arms upon the frame of the door. “Oh, yes. And beyond.”  
  
Eric gave the Bentley another look. This time, his expression resembled one of nausea. The Bugatti could only reach four-hundred kilometers per hour, maximum.

Crowley grinned devilishly, “You see, Eric, _any_ car is the fastest car in the world. So long as _I’m_ at the wheel.” He took his arms away from the frame and turned to climb into the Bentley.

Eric stopped him once more. “That’s not fair!” He was nearly hyperventilating. With a stern glare, he shook his head and demanded, “You can’t use any miracles in this race.”

Crowley feigned a thick, innocent surprise. “And why not?”

“Because it’d be _cheating.”_

Crowley scoffed, glancing around the street with a grin on his face, “Cheating.” What a funny little hare.

Eric held a pointed finger toward the bookshop. “I _let_ you cheat at Risk, Crowley. I’m _not_ letting you cheat in our race.”

Crowley appeared somewhat appalled, but he didn’t care enough to argue against the truth. “You think I--?”

“You did, I know you did, and I didn’t mind it, because it was just a game.” Eric took a recovering breath as his fear subsided. “But _this_ is serious business. No cheating. No miracles.” The hare glanced at the pavement below him and swallowed. “I can’t perform any, so you can’t perform any either. It has to be fair.”

The redhead growled, stepping away from the open door of the car to march up to the brat. “If _I_ can’t perform any, then that’s _definitely_ not fair. You’ve got….” he gestured at the Bugatti, then turned to his beloved Bentley, “An’ I…”

A level of smugness crept onto Eric’s face. “You what? Have _that_ old thing?” he giggled at Crowley, clearly enjoying his predicament. The serpent glared at him from behind his glasses. Eric savored the moment, relishing in the fact that the Bugatti was better than the Bentley, at least in terms of raw power.

Crowley curled a deep threat at him. “Do you wanna have this race, or not?”

Eric’s smirk dissipated. He wanted to have this race very much.

“If I can’t perform miracles on my _own_ car, then--”

“Alright,” Eric suddenly permitted, elaborating, “You…” he thought for a second, then swiftly found the proper term to their deal, “You can only perform the miracles _necessary_ to enhance your vehicle so it is _identical_ in capabilities to mine.” A bright smile blinked onto his face. He swayed as he waited for Crowley’s answer. “Fair?” 

He had been acutely specific. They both were well aware of their species’ propensity for taking advantage of contingencies and flawed parameters.

Crowley glowered, but muttered a, “Fair,” in agreement.

Eric’s rule had changed the nature of their race. It was no longer about who could drive from point A to point B in the shortest amount of time. It was now about their individual decision-making and handling-- and honestly, Crowley preferred it that way. He was the more experienced handler, so he still held an advantage, even if their vehicles were bound by the same performance capabilities.  
  
Eric appeared only slightly comforted. He dipped his head, looking up at Crowley with large brown eyes. “You won’t use any miracles beyond that? You promise?”   
  
“I promise,” Crowley muttered while turning toward the Bentley.

Concern crossed Eric’s face. The hare took a step after him, asking, “Do you _truly_ mean that?”

The redhead stopped and turned to face the lesser demon, giving him his full attention. He opened his arms with a bob of his head, repeating, “ _Yes._ I do.”

Eric continued to appear nervous. He hesitated to open his mouth again, knowing he was asking a lot of the serpent. “Could you... take your glasses off?”

“Wot?”

Eric massaged his hands together, resisting the urge to say ‘never mind,’ and instead explaining with great care, “I need to see your eyes. In order to really know... if you mean it or not.”

Crowley sighed like a deflating balloon.

Eric winced, but as much as he wanted to apologize for and retract his request, he didn’t. Before they began their race, he needed to ensure Crowley intended to keep his promise not to cheat during it.

The serpent stepped over to the hare and pulled off his glasses.

The last time Eric had seen Crowley’s eyes (barring the occasion when he’d spoken to him in serpent form,) he’d threatened to create a new Hell for him if he brought Aziraphale any pain. His eyes looked very different now than they’d looked during the delivery of that threat. They appeared conflicted, and _tired_ of being conflicted, yet unable to abandon their conflict. His eyes were also somewhat dull-- which should have been impossible, since they were quite literally made from fire. More than anything else, they were honest.

“I’m not going to cheat, Eric.” The serpent looked down, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “I just want to get this over with, and be done.”

_With you._

Eric didn’t see the truth in the last part. He only saw it in the first. “Okay.” A smile returned to his face as he remained blinded by his hopes. The hare exhaled in relief, “Thank you.”

Crowley grimaced as he put his glasses back on.

“To the desert, then?” Eric invited, already hurrying toward the Bugatti.

“I’ll follow you there,” Crowley promised sadly.

* * *

The sun was on the cusp of rising. The chill of the night was starting to edge away, and the sky was growing far more blue than black. The first rays of the sun climbed over the horizon like fingers curling over a cliff ledge, bathing the landscape in summer hues and casting long shadows from every dune and rock. The sun also warmed two demons’ backs as they built their racecourse.

For the sake of fairness, they took turns deciding where to place the checkpoint flags-- though, since Crowley was the only one with supernatural abilities, he miracled-up Eric’s flags for him. They agreed to use the natural terrain, with no alterations to it. Eric favored marking segments where there were long stretches of ground to cover, and Crowley favored marking segments where sharp turns were required to weave between flag markers. Together, they crafted quite an advanced and difficult route. 

“I’m not going to have any miracles _left,_ if you keep up with this,” Crowley muttered.

“One more, one more,” Eric pointed, leaning close to the serpent to align their sight. “Between that rock there, and the little dune to the right.”

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers, and the markers appeared where Eric indicated. The flags subtly waved in the morning breeze, which was quickly growing hotter by the minute. 

“Right, that’s the last one,” the redhead declared. “I’ve got to save the rest for the race.” He could have sworn the little vermin was trying to run him dry before they even began.

“Okay, okay. You can place the finish line now,” Eric nodded and bit his lip with a fanged smile, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

Crowley carelessly lifted his hand again as if it were as heavy as lead. “Done.”  
  
Nothing about their track had changed. Eric’s smile paused. “Where did you put it?”   
  
“Behind that wall,” Crowley pointed at the canyon in the distance. “On the other side of that gap. Do you see it?”   
  
Eric squinted. “All the way out there?”

There was indeed a gap in the distant canyon, just about two and a half meters wide, perhaps where an ancient river once flowed through. If so, then that river had eroded an over-sized crack in the rock that served as a brief doorway to the rest of the desert on the other side of the natural barrier.

Eric’s eyes grew sore from squinting so hard. He turned to the serpent. “Why’d you put it there?”  
  
“Having a bottleneck as the last obstacle eliminates the possibility of a tie,” the redhead explained. He was done with ties and truces. There were going to determine a victor here and now, and it was going to be him.

Eric looked concerned, but only for a moment before he grinned. “Perfect.” It was clear that Eric believed the exact same thing as his fellow demon. “Let’s get started!” the hare turned to stride towards his car.

Crowley remained where he stood and surveyed their course one last time. He thought back to the boy’s request to see his eyes, his efforts to eliminate the possibility of any cheating, and the tireless enthusiasm in his spirit. “You really want to win this, don’t you?” Crowley mumbled.

As if he were speaking his marriage vows, Eric answered back a straightforward and dedicated, “I do.”

Crowley turned to gaze at him curiously, asking with a small shake of his head and a purse of his bottom lip, “Would you do _anything..._ to win this?”

Eric was resting one hand on the open door of his purple sports car. The sun was poised on the edge of the horizon directly behind him, silhouetting him as its halo-like rays broke through the tangled texture of his hair. “I would,” he nodded with the most solemn nod that ever nodded. Their eyes met, and Eric took a breath before applying a firm conviction to his promise. “I’d do whatever it takes.”

Behind the defenses of his glasses, Crowley held his gaze for much longer than before. “What could you _possibly_ be so eager to win from this?”

Eric grinned, just shy of winking at the serpent, “You’ll find out soon enough.” With a cocky smirk, Eric slipped into the confinement of his sports car.

After thorough contemplation, Crowley slunk into the confinement of his beloved Bentley.

* * *

With the purr of a preying panther, the Bugatti’s eight litre engine revved as Eric massaged the throttle, flexing the vehicle’s audible power as he looked out the driver’s side window to his left. Crowley calmly looked out the driver’s side window to his right, answering his opponent’s noisy challenge with a steady weight of his own boot upon the Bentley’s throttle. Their engines both reverberated with the same sinister energy as they lay in wait for the race to begin.  
  
Eric smirked, his eagerness getting the better of him. His foot pressed deeper into his accelerator, and the Bugatti raged louder as it sat impatiently in place, drowning out the Bentley’s mature growls. 

A tall stoplight counted down their race. Each circle illuminated in a bright red as the colors descended toward the bottom, where a dormant green would inevitably signal the start of their rally.

The hare’s grip clenched at the top of his steering wheel, his knuckles rigid and sharp as if they were primed for a punch. Crowley sat with his hands poised at their proper marks, three and nine, upon his steering wheel. He looked over at Eric with a cool obsidian gaze, patiently waiting for their competition to commence.  
  
The stoplight began to beep with each glow of a bright orange circle-- only three lights away from the bottom.

Both demons turned their determination forward.

The last orange light glowed with a dull beep.

Eric revved harder.

A more shrill beep accompanied the final, bright green light, permitting them to _go._

The Bugatti’s tires screamed with speedy rotation-- but they spun in place, only kicking up a mighty plume of golden sand. Crowley smirked, allowing the Bentley to roll forward across the wild terrain at a humble, casual speed. He gradually applied the gas, soon reaching ninety kilometers per hour. By the time he hit one-twenty, the Bugatti had found its traction and was hurrying to catch up.

“We’re not on asphalt, Eric,” the serpent chuckled to himself, glancing down at the rear view mirror perched on his dashboard. Perhaps Aziraphale should have given the hare a certain Aesop fable to read so he could have learned ahead of time that ‘slow and steady won the race.’

It was clear that Eric’s over-enthusiastic ambition was going to continue being a hindrance to his performance. As they both approached the first flag, which marked a sharp turn around the obstacle of a small sand dune, Eric did not slow down. 

Crowley did, allowing Eric to catch up to his rear bumper just before the turn. The serpent cranked his steering wheel and pulled his handbrake, sending the Bentley into a nice coil around the flag before straightening her out and continuing along the path. He craned his head to catch a glimpse of the Bugatti careening around the turn in a wide, slippery arc, its front tires spinning without traction yet again. The sports car sent up another cloud as it shredded the sand sideways.

Crowley grinned as he focused ahead. If Eric was going to continue mucking up his turns and failing to adhere to the invisible racing line, then this win was _in the bag_ for the serpent. Driving around aimlessly in the desert for fun was one thing, but driving _efficiently_ around in the desert to claim victory in the universe’s most important competition was another. 

The redhead continued glancing in the rear view mirror as he drove, but his smirk began to fade. Once again, Eric had caught up to his rear bumper, driving much too fast for the upcoming turn. It was clear that he wasn't going to execute it properly, and that made Crowley a bit anxious, though it should only have brought him smug relief. As the serpent performed his handbrake turn, he glanced out the window again, watching the Bugatti behind him.

As expected, Eric took the turn too carelessly. The Bugatti spun across the sand, unable to correct itself. One of the vehicle’s tires lifted from the ground for a moment, and Crowley’s heart fluttered as he witnessed it. But all four of the sports car’s tires bumped back onto the ground, and the Bugatti spun to a halt, though it was now facing the wrong way. Crowley relaxed as he finished the Bentley’s smooth turn and straightened her out. The Bugatti scrambled to follow, kicking up another cloud of desert dirt as it fishtailed back onto the path.

“Seriously, Eric,” the redhead muttered, glaring into his rear view mirror. “How am _I_ the careful one, here?” 

For once, Crowley was driving _calmly--_ at least in comparison to Eric. Aziraphale still would have been in fits and holding onto the frame for dear life if he were his passenger, no doubt begging him to slow down, or stop altogether. But if the angel were _Eric’s_ passenger, he would have passed out by now.   
  
Perhaps Crowley’s anxiety factored into his decreased speed, or perhaps he was simply distracted by watching Eric fumble around behind him, but the Bentley made no effort to stay very far ahead of the Bugatti. Crowley took the next turn with the same smoothness, correcting the shifted weight of his vehicle as it skid nicely around the tight corner. He saw Eric take the turn smoothly too, driving much more carefully than the last time. The brat was learning. Eric corrected the Bugatti marvelously, and the serpent allowed a brief smile of pride to weasel across his face. “There you go, you got it.” Then Crowley remembered that he had to focus. And _win._

They were on a straight stretch of land now, and they each floored their throttle. The Bugatti roared thunderously as it accelerated. Crowley continued to watch his rear view mirror as Eric caught up to him, but he guided the Bentley in front of his opponent as the hare tried to find a way around him. “Nope. Sorry, bunny boy.”

Eric was running out of time to use a burst of speed to get around the redhead, knowing that he’d have to brake before the next turn. Crowley persistently prevented him from passing, blocking him off at every attempt.

“Dammit, Crowley,” Eric hissed to himself, gripping his steering wheel tighter. “Let me by,” he threatened, inching closer and closer to the Bentley’s rear bumper.

Crowley remained calm, monitoring their proximity between glancing ahead at the fast-approaching turn. He would need to start downshifting in a few moments to ensure he did not the take the turn too sharply, but the Bugatti was still riding the Bentley’s arse. 

The Bugatti swerved to the left, and with a quick adjustment of the steering wheel, Crowley blocked the hare again. But it had been a trick. The Bugatti was suddenly veering right, and rushing into a window of opportunity with an alarming burst of speed. 

“Shit,” Crowley hissed, having fallen for the juke. More than that, he’d given the hare a chance to knock him into a vicious tailspin. All it would take was a well-placed bump from the Bugatti’s nose into the rear corner of his vintage car. Crowley was certain that was Eric’s plan, and so Crowley hurried his vehicle further to the left to avoid the dirty attack. But that wasn't Eric’s plan at all, and so all Crowley had done was _give_ the Bugatti room to creep up beside him.   
  
It was Crowley’s mistake for thinking Eric would try something so terrible. He grimaced through his embarrassment and focused on the corner ahead, also abandoning his confusion for the perfect chance missed. He chalked it up to the fact that he hadn’t _taught_ Eric how to bump another car off the road, so of course the demon hadn’t tried it.

The flag marker was coming up, but it was on Crowley’s right side, where Eric had smartly secured his spot. “Dammit,” the redhead grumbled to himself as he glanced over at the smirking hare. Eric had cleverly claimed the advantageous inner corner of the turn. Growling, Crowley downshifted, braked, and began his careful maneuver in unison with the other demon, staying just barely outside of Eric’s path. Both vehicles curved around the bend in synchronized perfection with only a couple of meters between them. However, Eric began closing that small space, guiding his skidding car towards Crowley’s in a calculated and careful manner, purposefully taking the turn wider than he could have. 

“Don’t scratch my car, you rotten little--” Crowley grit his teeth as he made the minor adjustments necessary to avoid scraping against Eric’s car. As a result, Eric succeeded in ‘pushing’ Crowley to the outskirts of the track.

Eric smirked triumphantly as he straightened out the Bugatti and kicked her into full gear, surging towards the next flag. His wheels kicked up a curtain of orange sand once more-- this time straight into Crowley’s windshield. The serpent snarled in irritation as he swerved out from behind the vision-impairing cloud, unable to miracle it away.

Eric had stolen the lead, but not for long. The numbers on each of their dashboards climbed and dropped as they navigated through the terrain in a balance of speed and handling, which Eric had clearly now grasped the concept of.

The Bentley followed the Bugatti through the desert course. In an act of bitter karma, the Bugatti did not let the Bentley pass, and the older car soon found itself facing similar dilemmas that it had created for its younger counterpart. Crowley took the next few turns a little too desperately for his own good, skidding more than usual on the slippery sand as he stretched the limits of his vehicle’s turning speed. 

They both continued to play risky. Eric was certainly doing whatever he had to do to remain in front, and Crowley was trying everything he could to snake around him, even directing the Bentley off some small sand dunes that acted as miniature jumps. But Eric remained solidly in the lead.

* * *

The next series of turns were hairpin ones; closer together and more sharply-angled. The turns appeared like zig-zagged stitches through a minefield, with each flag stationed at the corners of jutting desert rocks. There was no room for error at this obstacle, and something sank within Crowley’s gut as they approached it. The serpent gripped his steering wheel as he watched the Bugatti descend upon the most treacherous segment of the course-- which the redhead had placed.  
  
 _‘Be safe,’_ the angel’s wishes echoed in his mind.

So much for that.  
  
Eric took the first turn well. The sports car’s rear wheels locked and slid along the gravelly pebbles below, but the vehicle found its traction again as it completed the one-eighty degree rotation. The Bentley followed suit, her driver tensing as he felt his vehicle struggle to handle the demanding turn. 

The second turn came immediately after, and the Bugatti executed again it fairly well. Crowley tried and failed to relax as he followed through the tight corner right behind the hare. Dirt and pebbles bounced off his windshield. He squinted behind his glasses to see through the rust-colored air around them, and was actually grateful that _he_ was the one behind at this point, so that Eric did not have to deal with trying to peer through this cloud.

They were no longer racing-- at least, not in Crowley’s mind. Now, they were simply trying to weave their way out of this hazardous territory in one piece.  
  
Next turn. The purple Bugatti’s racing fin sliced through the dust-churned air, and the rear bumper wiggled briefly as it lost its traction for a second. The Bentley was doing the same. Crowley could feel her slipping under his shaky control, but his eyes remained locked onto that purple racing fin ahead of him-- if only because it was the only thing he could see.

The last turn was the most difficult, as the compounding momentum of all the previous ones had piled up in the swinging trajectory of the vehicles. The rear of the Bugatti skid to the outskirts of the pathway, its rear tire nicking a small rock buried in the sand. The vehicle bounced harshly, but remained upright as it swerved to correct itself. The Bentley immediately nicked the same rock, though its momentum had shifted it further off the track. Crowley cranked his steering wheel to correct the jostle, but ultimately, the Bentley was only knocked back on course by the harsh thud of its hip smacking against a boulder.

Crowley’s glasses had leapt off his face, but the serpent remained relatively in control of his car thanks to the unexpected aid of the boulder. As the Bugatti straightened out and escaped the minefield of obstacles, the Bentley followed after-- intact, save for a large dent in her left side. Crowley would have to fix that later, when he could perform extraneous miracles again.   
  
The redhead caught his breath and glanced behind him at the rocky patch they’d courageously traversed. The purple Bugatti calmly drove ahead of him, veering slightly over to spare the Bentley from its wake of dust. Crowley crept closer to the sports car, and upon closer inspection, saw that it had earned a fair amount of scuffs and scratches, but nothing major. He saw Eric glancing out from his driver side window at the Bentley as well, as if they both were taking a brief pause in their mutual journey to look each other over.   
  
A humored grin spread across the hare’s face as he visibly laughed at what they’d just survived, and Crowley couldn’t help but nervously grin along. That _had_ been pretty damn thrilling, even if it had been terrifying. Their friendly halftime chuckles soon came to a halt as they glanced forward to see that the finish line was in the distance-- just beyond a small gap in a canyon wall.

* * *

Sheer determination set onto Eric’s face again. The hare remembered that he had to focus. And _win._

The Bugatti shot forward like a bullet, roaring to maximum acceleration. Crowley wasn't as eager to let his smile fall, but it did, and he floored the Bentley’s throttle as his expression morphed into a snarl. He was just caught having a bit of _fun_ again, and he blamed Eric for it.

Crowley gripped the steering wheel and bore his teeth, willing the Bentley's speedometer to climb higher, willed her cylinders to fire harder, and willed her tires to spin faster. The Bentley accelerated far more incredibly than it should have been able to. It accelerated in mere seconds, like the Bugatti, who roared at an impressive four hundred kilometers per hour. Crowley’s beloved car was running purely on four hundred _miracles_ per hour, but it kept pace due to the serpent’s unprecedented willpower.   
  
The two machines ripped through the desert side by side, sending orange waves billowing behind them. The Bugatti was more than two thirds of a car length ahead of the Bentley, but impossibly, the older car managed to inch its way up to be perfectly matched with its counterpart.

The long snout of the Bentley slipped into Eric’s peripheral vision, and he glanced over with an alarmed anger between keeping his eyes on the path ahead. Crowley did the same. They both flattened the throttle into the floor of their vehicle and shifted to their highest gears. The entire world should have been deafened by the overbearing cacophony of their engines.

The Bentley’s speedometer couldn’t climb any higher (and it was already well past the manufacturer’s scale,) which meant the Bentley had reached the peak speed of the Bugatti-- and therefore reached the extent of its limitations for their race. The fact that they were neck and neck meant Eric was also pushing his vehicle’s peak speed, but Crowley could cheat. Crowley could allow just a couple kilometers over their agreed limit, and sneak his way past Eric.

He _could,_ but he didn’t. He’d promised.

Eric sent a series of bewildered glances over to the Bentley, fearing that it would start inching ahead. But it didn’t, and he somewhat relaxed, though he made no sign of slowing down as they neared the wall.

Only one car could fit through the bottleneck, and Eric was making it clear that it was going to be him. In a momentous game of chicken, they both sped for the gap between the cliffs.

For a moment, Crowley considered releasing the acceleration, considered allowing Eric to take the victory, and considered accepting his own defeat, which he was quite tired of doing lately. But then he heard his angel’s voice.

_‘He’s not going to harm us.’_

Crowley stared ahead as he listened to his memories. 

_‘I'm willing to bet on it.’_

The serpent grimaced to himself as his firm beliefs boiled up from the depths of his soul and his own voice snarled in his head. 

_‘He has plenty of reason to do either of us harm, and he_ will, _given the proper opportunity.”_

Crowley pulled his fiery gaze from the canyon wall to the Bugatti. Eric glanced over and met his bare yellow eyes. The hare continued to possess a cold, stone-faced look of dedication as they rapidly approached the bottleneck.

_‘No matter how nice or honest you are to him, or how many stupid little things you two have in common, he is --and will always be-- a threat to you.’_

The truth was, the redhead had been directing such a reminder to himself as well as Aziraphale.

_‘Give him a chance, Crowley.'_

_‘A chance to do what? Something terrible?’_

That was what Aziraphale had done. He’d given Eric _two_ chances to do something terrible. Crowley knew too many sayings about ‘third times’ to let Aziraphale give Eric another chance. Instead, Crowley was claiming it for himself.

 _‘When you actually_ do _let your guard down around him,_ that _will be the time he strikes! You are playing with fire. You_ will _get burned.’_

Crowley was bitter, and desperate, and most of all, _afraid._ He was afraid for his angel. His only consolation was the knowledge that Aziraphale’s guard would return with his grief. The serpent’s knuckles turned white as they tightened around the steering wheel, locking the Bentley in a literal dead-set path. Eric _would_ hurt them if he was given the opportunity, and Crowley was going to prove that to the bookkeeper even if he had to sacrifice himself to do it. 

Eric said he’d do whatever it took to win this race. Crowley believed him. 

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley murmured as the Bentley vibrated with power around him, her tires destroying the caked ground they pounded over. Crowley’s glasses bounced and clattered on the tremulous floor near his feet. “This is for your own good.”

The fact was, Aziraphale wasn't the only one who could do stupid and dangerous things to prove his theories.

The serpent shut his burning eyes and tucked his chin, bracing himself with teeth clenched, arms straight, and leg extended in a position to press down on the gas until the very end.

* * *

Eric had meant it when he said he’d do whatever it took to win this race. 

He’d even die for it. 

He had four other corporations. He could afford to damage this one in order to cross that finish line, and he _would_ cross that finish line-- even if he had to crawl from a wreckage to do it. So when he saw Crowley shut his eyes and brace himself for the crash, Eric fearlessly braced himself as well, his grip similarly locked upon his steering wheel. The hare’s foot pressed upon the Bugatti’s throttle with the weight of an anvil.

But then he realized-- _he_ wouldn’t be the one to die. The Holy Vow prohibited Crowley from causing him harm. 

Eric would survive the crash. Crowley would not. 

With a flash of fear that came much too late, Eric slammed on his brakes.

* * *

One car flew through the gap in the wall.

It was the roaring bullet of a 1934 Bentley, and it was followed closely by a screeching twenty-first century Bugatti. 

The sports car fishtailed slightly, but managed to narrowly make it through the bottleneck behind the older car. Its locked tires continued to slip across the sun-colored sand as an overwhelming scent of melted rubber filled the air.

Crowley startled at the sound of the screaming brakes and the whooshing canyon wall. Gasping in a sweat, he glanced at the rear view mirror and saw a flash of purple swerve in a cloud of dust.

Another memory echoed through his shocked mind.

_‘He could have killed you.’_

An expression of something euphoric began to explode across the serpent’s face.

_‘Exactly! But he didn’t!’_

However, the serpent's expression vanished just as quickly as it blossomed.

Crowley witnessed the Bugatti skid sideways and nick another rock-- this one nearly the size of its own wheel. The rock chipped with a gunshot-like crack, and the sports car was sent into a full-speed roll as though God herself had lowered a finger down and flicked it into a hurtling tumble.

The redhead wouldn’t put it past her.  
  
By the time the demon's hand shot up to perform some kind of miracle, the Bugatti had catapulted out of sight-- down the other side of a boulder-scattered dune.


End file.
